Jishin means
by cedricsowner
Summary: My take on what a sixth season might have been like. Sequel to Tsubasa means. Warning: Chapter fourteen is rather dark. I know I'm slow at the moment... sorry! And here comes chapter SEVENTY-THREE!
1. out of the depths

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ out of the depths ~ **_

"Let me get this straight, Miss Cleves…" Winston paused, a sure sign to everyone who knew him a little better that he was having trouble keeping his composure.

"…you want to hire us because you _think_ that you will stir up so much trouble that somebody might want to kill you?"

"Exactly", she chirped and beamed at him.

"Wouldn't it be… I don't know, this might be just me… _easier _to simply refrain from stirring up trouble?" They all recognized the familiar tremble in his voice. Talk about a volcano about to erupt.

"But then I would forever remain Penny Cleves of Orange County Weekly News. I want to be PENNY CLEVES of New York Times, Washington Post or Boston Globe." She was still beaming at him, as if she couldn't even imagine somebody not wholeheartedly agreeing with her plans.

Well, she definitely didn't lack the attitude to achieve her ambitious aims. The rest, however….

"Could you… just one more time…" Winston's voice was taking on that extra sweet note that indicated an imminent rant just as reliably as thick dark clouds on the horizon indicate a thunderstorm "…explain your _project_ to us?"

"Of course", she exclaimed happily, opened her purse and began rummaging around for her notepad.

_Women's bags_, Winston thought as he watched her, _are like black holes in carry-around size – they eat everything up. _Watching the client dig around reminded him of a situation with Michele and he quickly pushed the thought away.

It still hurt, although months had passed.

As Ms Cleves finally managed to retrieve the pad from the depths of the bag a small box of chocolate mints got entangled with it, the lid came off and a few dragées fell out. They hit the floor and started rolling in all directions. Carmine, as usual alert for everything edible, immediately jumped up to help the client gather them, well-trained dog that he was. Ilsa, who had made it her pet project in the literal sense to reduce the animal's weight, rushed forward to beat him to the fallen sweets but couldn't prevent one mint from disappearing forever in Carmine's muzzle.

She could swear the dog was grinning at her.

Guerrero, meanwhile, was grinning wolfishly at her backside. At least one thing to savor from this tedious meeting.

Penny Cleves sat up straight again and opened her notepad. "In the summer of 1982 a DC-9 with eighty passengers on its way from Miami to Puerto Rico suddenly disappeared from the radar screen, on a wonderfully sunny evening with no rain at all, moderate wind, great visibility… Last pilot radio communication with Miami tower only 30 seconds earlier, no indication at all of trouble on board. Two days later pieces of the wreck were found at the bottom of the sea, and about forty dead bodies floating around. The cause of the accident was never fully determined, machine failure due to bird strike was assumed in the end."

She smiled at them as if expecting praise for successfully summarizing the Wikipedia article. When none came, she continued, still unfazed.

"I'm going to write an article stating that the airplane fell victim to a bomb, placed by the mafia in the context of a gruesome war between two rivaling families. Tony Belvilacqua's favorite niece Donatella perished in that incident. It is not beyond imagination that the Belvilacqua's archenemies, the Galottis, killed her to weaken their biggest competition."

"But you don't have any evidence for this", Ames stated, in tone that clearly added an unspoken _seriously? _to her sentence. "As in, you know, none at all."

"That doesn't matter", Penny explained happily. "Mysterious crash, mafia, bomb, innocent victims, that's the stuff careers are made of! This is all about drawing attention."

"And in case you draw too much attention you want us on board, right?", Chance chimed in, the first time he said anything since Miss Cleves had walked in.

"Well, better safe than sorry, wouldn't you agree?". She smiled broadly at him.

Ilsa quickly led the woman into the lobby. Winston looked as if he was about to explode, yes, but Guerrero's face had taken on an alarmingly thoughtful expression.

And, sure enough…

"We could give her what she wants…." He sipped at his tea. "A couple of adjustments to her bank account… a bit of rearranging on her harddrive… she could make it into the evening news…."

"At least we all agree that we're NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS JOB", Winston interrupted him impatiently, pacing the room up and down. In his cop days he had had more than one run-in with journalists who would have sold their soul for a good story, ruining cases, influencing witnesses, attacking the police's work in their articles…. He was so not going to help this hyena-in-the-making out there.

"Can I tell her? Can I please tell her?" Ames, hopping up and down on her seat.

Chance smiled at her and took a sip from his coffee cup. "So we only help people we like?"

Collective groan from the rest of the team.

"Dude, I really thought you'd gotten rid of that redemption bug…"

"Pity we can't just lock her up in a jar imbued with an Unbreakable Charm..." Ames.

Ilsa completely agreed with Guerrero: "Seriously, Chance, that woman is practically begging for trouble…"

"Maybe we should put a sign up at our door: _Christopher Chance is the guy you go to when no one else can help. Unless you're dumb._"

"Someone else might need our help. Someone who not stupidly created the mess we have to sort out", Ilsa pointed out, shaking her head. So many years of working together, and still Chance could leave her completely puzzled. Why the hell did he want to help that woman, of all people?

"So next time Harry calls we tell him to fend for himself?"

This would have justified another collective groan, but everybody except Guerrero was too busy making small, surreptitious gestures of metaphysical defense: Ames quickly crossed herself, Winston knocked on wood, Ilsa looked at the remaining glass pear on her desk. With Harry it was a "speak of the devil" thing and they really could do without another manifestation of his ability to attract trouble like a magnet.

Chance, however, was still not done. "Look, stupid and thoughtless or not, if she squares off against Belvilacqua, she will very soon have a problem on her hands, one of the killing kind…."

"CARMINE!"

Ames jumped up so fast, her chair crashed backwards to the floor. The others, now seeing too what had shocked her so much, followed suit.

"OH MY GOD, CARMINE!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Carmine's mouth was wide open. Saliva was soaking the blanket underneath his head. His tongue was sticking out at an odd angle, unnaturally pale, while his gums were slowly taking on a bluish color. He had his eyes wide open, too. To everyone's horror they were completely glassy and unfocused. His legs were rigid, the muscles overstretched and paralyzed. He didn't react to anything, neither touching nor calling him had any effect. If not for his horribly ragged breathing and the irregular line on the monitor that showed his heart rate, they would have thought him dead.

Chance watched the vet filling a syringe. "You're not going to put him down, are you?"

"If he is beyond rescue…", Ames tried cautiously, putting her hand on his arm.

"That's not what I meant." Chance swallowed drily. "If you can't save him, I'll… I…"

"We'll leave you alone with him, bro", Guerrero nodded, fully understanding. As gruesome as it sounded, if this was his dog, he'd want to do the same thing Chance was hinting at now. Death through a bullet, fired by an expert, was a 100% pain free, extremely quick way, to end any kind of misery for good. Injections always carried the risk of not being strong enough or being oddly processed by the body. A gunshot was safer.

Just then the vet shook his head. "For now I'm only trying to stabilize his cardio-vascular levels. It will definitely be a battle uphill, but right now there's still a chance he might make it."

Chance wondered if the doctor was only saying that because he was one of Guerrero's… _clients_… and apparently Guerrero had promised him to end their … _business relationship_… and hand back certain photos if Carmine made it.

"I'm still impressed how fast you got those test results…", the vet continued.

Ilsa didn't feel like smiling but for a fleeting moment she felt a bit better. It did pay to have a Pucci wing at San Francis. The lab had treated Carmine's blood sample with top priority.

"You've been giving him pills against osteoporosis as a preventive measure, right?" The vet studied the test results again.

"Only for a couple of weeks… in combination with a diet." Ilsa desperately wished she had fed Carmine more. Maybe then he wouldn't have been after the mint so quickly.

"Might be they save his life." The doctor began setting up a drip infusion. "These anti-osteoporosis pills contain a substance that worked like a retardant against the main elements of the poison. The symptoms you're seeing right now are scary, I know, and his age might pose a problem, too, but as far as I can see his liver is still unharmed, his intestine, his stomach… the next few hours will be decisive."

… … …

Ms. Cleves was not understanding at all when Ilsa told her in no uncertain terms that she could either spend the night in the warehouse's guestroom, where she would be safe, or walk out the office and most likely, considering that someone had undergone great trouble to poison her personal chocolate mints, not see the next sunrise.

"But don't you want to find out who tried to poison me? This would make such a great opening for my article!"

"We want to find out who poisoned _Carmine_, yes", Guerrero chimed in, calm and matter-of-factly, as usual. "But tonight no one is going anywhere."

Grumbling and muttering like a teenager, Ms. Cleves finally retreated to bed. A blanket of silence fell over the office, only interrupted by the occasional clinking of glasses being set down, the low humming of the monitor that controlled Carmine's vital functions and the dog's labored breathing. After about two hours Ilsa had the impression that it was growing more steady, calmer and deeper, but she was worried it was just wishful thinking.

At midnight a second vet appeared, taking over the night shift from his colleague. Just like the first doctor he was a renowned expert in the field of canine treatment.

"You've been collecting vets?", Winston asked Guerrero.

"They come in handy", he shrugged in reply.

Yes, of course… vets could stitch up bullet wounds just like any regular doctor and most medicaments they kept in their offices could be given to humans, too.

Around three in the morning the ringing of the telephone suddenly ripped through the office's quietness. Winston got to the receiver first. "Number suppressed", he said.

In the guestroom they could hear Penny Cleves complaining about all the ruckus in the middle of the night. "How am I supposed to write good stories when I can't concentrate after too little sleep?"

Nobody paid her much attention, though, since at the ringing of the phone Carmine had lifted his head and looked around, expression still a little dopey, but a lot less zombie-like than a couple of hours ago. Chance was immediately by his side, cautiously stroking his back.

Winston took the call and activated the speaker.

"Mr. Chance", a very familiar voice said. "I've heard you're looking into the crash of the DC-9 in 1982… We should talk."

Tony Belvilacqua.

… … …

You don't tell Tony Belvilacqua he needs to call back later. You just don't. It equals up to ordering a hit.

On yourself.

Guerrero hooked up a video connection to the monitor in the conference room. From there they had full view of Carmine and the vet without letting Belvilacqua know what was going on.

"It has come to my knowledge that this wannabe reporter, Penny Something, wants to suggest that Galotti is responsible for the crash", Belvilacqua began. "She wants to write an article about the tensions between our families, recount events that better remain forgotten, reopen old wounds…"

Ever since the almost wedding between his grandson and Galotti's daughter the relationship between the rivaling families had become significantly better and they had actually started combining their efforts. Ilsa's powerpoint presentation had made a lasting impression… Nobody needed a walk down memory lane.

But, as it turned out, this was not the point.

"Galotti is innocent", Belvilacqua stated, and suddenly his voice was laden with all sorts of emotions: Regret, pain, anger and, most of all, deep sadness. "The crash was no accident. Bird strike, my ass… But Galotti is innocent."

The old man took a deep breath.

"More than three decades have passed and I still don't know who's responsible for Donatella's death. Whatever you need, Chance, you got it. But find my niece's murderer."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"In all those years that have passed since we've set it up here, no one ever came to take a look", the museum's representative remarked, apparently trying to somehow fill the enormous silence of the hangar.

"I mean, _really _take a look", the young man continued. "Tourists we've got aplenty. Those freaks that get off on catastrophes. That's why we banned taking pictures in here, we don't want those idiots posing in front of the wreck and then posting the pictures like trophies on facebook."

He practically snarled the last part, took a deep breath, then returned to his original tone of voice.

"Relatives come, too. Every year around the date of the crash, of course, but also on other special days, birthdays, wedding anniversaries… They leave flowers and stuff, light candles…"

He pointed at the wall opposite from them. It was covered with framed photos of the victims. Each photo had a small stone tablet attached underneath where people could place vases and lanterns. Many of them were burning.

"So many years ago, but the people still keep coming. Some of those who lost their spouse remarried. They are bringing their grandchildren by now. Some still come alone. They were never able to move on. Shortly after we had the wreck installed a teenage girl who had lost both her parents in the crash hung herself inside the remains. We put up video surveillance afterwards."

The young man fell silent. He had started working at the small Florida aviation museum long after the incident with the girl, but the older staff members still talked about it every now and then and every year they observed a minute's silence around the time she approximately had died.

So many victims.

"You're the first expert who has ever shown interest."

"Thank you for granting me access so fast", Chance replied, his eyes slowly wandering along the airplane's wreck.

"Well, Mr. Smith, our biggest sponsor, intervened on your behalf. He paid for the hangar, the installation of the wreck, still covers all maintenance costs, electricity, heating… A very generous man. I don't recall him ever making any kind of request before and letting you in here after hours really is no big deal. He could have asked for a ride with one of our World War I biplanes and we would have gladly agreed."

Under different circumstances, Chance would have smiled. "Mr. Smith"? Seriously? Tony know-every-trick-in-the-book Belvilacqua hadn't been able to come up with anything more creative than _Mr. Smith_? But the presence of the wrecked airplane stifled all light thoughts. Like a giant dinosaur's skeleton it filled the hangar, a monstrosity of crushed steel and flaking paint.

The different parts were easily recognizable, the cockpit, the undercarriage with the wheels, the wings, the rows of passenger seats… of course the recovery crew hadn't been able to retrieve everything from the bottom of the ocean, many seats were missing, most of the paneling was gone, but still, this was an almost complete reconstruction of the machine that had brought death upon eighty passengers and six crew members.

Almost.

The tail section was missing. The one part that the recovery crew had not been able to locate, despite weeks out on the ocean and a giant search radius.

_"It took me a year and lots of bribery to get permission for hoisting the wreck"_, Tony Belvilacqua had told Chance.

_"Would have tried getting my hands on it earlier, but the crash site was in direct vicinity of a busy sea lane, no chance to retrieve it quietly."_ Belvilacqua's voice had become angry and low as he explained this.

It was the missing tail section that Belvilacqua based his assumption on that birds had nothing to do with the crash. They had found everything else, why, of all things, should the tail remain lost? The water wasn't all that deep at the crash site, and since all other parts had remained on-site despite the local currents…

_"Someone must have stolen the damn tail before my people got to it, but I've got no idea who or at least when. Galotti didn't do it, I know that much. But with all else I ran into one wall after another."_

The museum representative left Chance alone with the wreck. It was late at night, outside darkness had fallen hours ago. Bare light bulbs illuminated the hangar. Cautiously Chance stepped in between the steel skeleton. Although the walls were missing it felt like climbing into a tomb.

"Talk to me, Guerrero", Chance said. Although he was speaking quietly his voice still echoed through the silence of the hangar. "What do the satellite photos say?"

Guerrero had never actually told anyone how he happened to have access to these kind of classified data, but this ability had come in very handy in the Martin Gleason case, saving Chance at the last minute from a parachute landing right in front of a camera on the rooftop of the Sentronics building, and it came in handy just as well now, so nobody asked.

"We're talking 1982 here, bro. One photo of the area a day. Grainy as hell. Black and white shit."

"Locating and hoisting the tail section must have taken days. Even with only one photo every 24 hours we should be able to see the ship that took it."

"Hate to disappoint you, but between the rescue ships directly after the crash and Belvilacqua's crew a year later there's nothing."

Chance pressed his lips together and slowly walked along what once must have been the aisle between the passenger seats. He imagined the flight attendants hurrying up and down, catering to the passengers… back then they had still been called stewardesses… At seat 37B he stopped. Donatella Belvilacqua's seat. The recovery crew had found it, almost untouched, only the fabric of the cover was discolored and torn at places, thanks to its age and the year at the bottom of the sea.

She had been twenty back then, a college student, with plans to go to medical school.

_Tail sections don't just disappear. _

"Guerrero, did you say the only ships that stayed longer at the crash site except Bevilacqua's were the rescue ships directly after the plane came down?"

When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Damn, this is grainy", Chance said, squinting at the black and white satellite photos Guerrero was showing him.

"1982, bro. Told you so." Guerrero handed Chance a magnifying glass.

"Yeah, great. Gray grains up close."

"Maybe this is like those paintings in that French museum with the glass pyramid? Those where you see nothing but dots when you're standing right in front of them, but if you take a couple of steps back suddenly you've got a landscape…", Ames mumbled absent-mindedly. She and Winston had been sifting through tons of computer data all morning, trying to track the substance that had almost killed Carmine back to its origin.

Penny Cleves was lying on a sofa in the back of the room, snoring away deeply. Maybe she was catching up on her beauty sleep after the long flight to Florida against the clock. Maybe Guerrero had tampered a little with the drink she had allowed herself after arriving at the hotel.

"You don't happen to know something about the Cezanne stolen from the Louvre a couple of years ago, do you, Ames?", Ilsa asked, voice raised in amused suspicion.

"Hey, I didn't even know the name of that museum till you mentioned it", Ames replied, making a show out of being completely focused on the data on the screen.

Both Chance and Guerrero grinned. Winston rolled his eyes. Ilsa gave a mock sigh of desperation, closed the file she had been studying and, by then grinning, too, joined the ex-thief and the ex-cop at the computer.

"She bought the mints from one of those shops where they have loose goods on display in huge jars and behind glass panes. A shop assistant filled them into the box for her." Ilsa opened the file and showed Ames and Winston the still from the shop's surveillance cam. Ames accessed the electronic file on her computer and let the video run.

Nothing suspicious – Penny Cleves came walking into the shop, ordered a medium-sized box of chocolate mints, the young woman behind the counter took a scoopful from the respective jar, put it into a box, named the price, Penny paid and left.

"The poisoned mints might have gotten into the box somewhere else", Ames suggested. Winston didn't react at all, not even with a grunt. He just urged her with a nod to play the video again.

"It's really difficult to get close enough to a woman's purse to pull that kind of stunt", Chance replied, still studying the satellite photos. "Almost impossible to access something inside and change its contents without getting noticed. Stealing or switching is easy, but adding something? And from the barcode we know that the box with the poisoned mints is exactly the same box that was bought at the shop."

A couple of years ago that comment would at least have sent a slight shiver down Ilsa's spine. The sentence spoke of experience in a somewhat darker context. By now, two shot thugs and numerous violations of the law later, she barely noticed its wider background. They all had tainted pasts.

"Stop right here", Winston told Ames just then. "There. You see that?" He was pointing at the young woman's upper arm. A tattoo was peeking out from underneath the short sleeve of her blouse.

"That's a navy tattoo. The eagle's tail feathers and part of the anchor that it is holding in its talons… decently colored enough not to shine through the white uniform… totally in accordance with the Navy's latest regulations regarding body art…"

Winston had been to enough bars to know what he was talking about. And now that he had pointed it out, Guerrero and Chance recognized the lower part of the official Navy Eagle, too.

So did Ames, by the way, from a very hot night with a very hot gunnery sergeant, but she didn't think it wise to mention that in the presence of Chance.

"The navy…" Chance dashed over to the other desk and came back with the satellite photos. "This here is the rescue vessel… easy to recognize from its prominent v-shape." He tapped at a grainy dot. "This must be the coast guard. They like boats that are slightly round. But this here…" He tapped at a third grainy dot. "…look at the length, the pointed ends… that's a military ship."

"Lots of military vessels were using that route", Ilsa read from the file in her hands. "It was 1982, the Cold War was still raging. Even some NATO allies were in the vicinity with their aircraft carriers: The British _HMS Invincible_ and the French _Clemenceau_."

"Well, that's definitely a US tattoo and that's the shape of a US military boat", Chance said. "A boat strong enough to hoist a tail unit. Nobody would have minded its presence in waters so crowded with military."

"But wouldn't someone have noticed the boat hoisting a part of the plane?", Ames asked the obvious. "Seriously, this was thirty years ago. Even if they threatened everybody, things do leak out."

"Unless they never hoisted it above water level…" Diving between Winston and Ames Guerrero took up command over the keyboard and showed them a topographic map of the sea bed at the crash site. "Completely plain ground. All they needed to do was hook the unit up and drag it off. If they did it during the night, nobody would have noticed."

Just then the telephone rang. The young man from the aviation museum Chance had talked to last night, asking for a meeting. Judging from his voice he wasn't planning to show him the museum's latest attractions.

"Did he say why?", Guerrero asked his friend.

Chance shook his head.

"Trap?"

"Maybe." Chance holstered his 45er. Guerrero got his shotgun from the hidden compartment of his suitcase.

"You're not going alone, bro."

… … …

When Chance arrived at the venue, the young man indeed wasn't alone. The elderly woman in his company, however, posed no threat. She was of frail birdlike appearance and her clothes indicated no hidden weapon whatsoever. She was holding a box in her hands, though.

"I mentioned to her that an expert had looked at the wreck", the young man explained.

"My brother perished in the plane crash. Luckily his body was one of those they were able to retrieve from the ocean. The only thing missing…" she took a deep breath "….was his leg. At first we didn't think much about it, but then the mortician – a dear friend of the family – pointed out that the wound was very clear cut, not at all as if it had been … ripped off … during the crash. More like someone had cut it off."

Chance frowned – first a missing tail unit, then a missing leg? What in the world had Penny Cleves stumbled into?

"I still tried not to think too much about it. But then one day, two years after the crash, this arrived in the mail…"

With shaking hands she held out the box to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

It was a shard.

The box contained a jagged metal shard.

Chance estimated it was about seven inches long and weighed about half a pound. If not for the metal and the considerable length, it would have passed as a prehistoric biface.

"This was sent to you via mail?", he asked, turning the rather heavy object in his hand. It felt like a dagger.

The woman nodded in confirmation. "I've had it tested after I had received it. All the lab could tell me was that it consisted of the same material the plane had been made of. But that's it. I don't know who delivered it to me or why. All I know is that there's something very fishy about my brother's death."

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to help you", Chance said cautiously. The woman had a haunted look on her face, the look of someone who had spent decades mulling the same questions over and over again. He was not going to let her hopes go up, not before he could be sure he'd really be able to give some answers. Disappointment could have a devastating effect on already desperate people. Nobody wanted another dead body hanging from the wreck's skeleton.

Jeez, Penny Cleves, what did you stumble upon?

… … …

"Abs is a friend", Winston repeated. "She'd do this for us without asking questions."

"Yeah, but _my_ guy is sitting right here, in Miami. We can hand-deliver the thing and he knows better than to lose it, trust me…" Guerrero photographed the shard one more time before he carefully put it back into the box it had been brought to the woman's doorstep so many years ago.

"Abs is one-hundred percent reliable, while you're suggesting someone who's scared of you because you've got dirt on him!"

"He's got a taste for rare exotic animals, that's all." Guerrero connected his camera to one of the computers. "And he's reliable, too. Always pays his monthly fee on time."

"Taste as in _taste _in the literal sense? You're shielding someone who EATS critically endangered species?" Ilsa sounded a lot more appalled than when she had heard about Ames and the stolen Cezanne.

"Would it help if I donated five percent of the fee to a rainforest trust?" Guerrero replied, shrugging, but somehow he didn't manage to deliver the line as unfazed as usual.

"We're taking Guerrero's guy", Chance decided. "Better not let this too far out of our sight."

"Any idea what this is?" Eyebrows furrowed, Ames watched the image the computer had generated from Guerrero's photos. Just like the physical object, they could turn it to all sides and in every direction. The new computer travel equipment Ilsa had bought on Philippa's advice was really paying off.

"The man's leg was missing, apparently cut off. Why would anyone cut a leg off, but return the rest of the body?"

The others could see that Winston didn't really want anyone to answer that question. He already had a conclusion, was proud of it and wanted to show off his police detective skills. Guerrero, predictably, made a move to speak up. A withering look from Ilsa, however, momentarily stopped him in his tracks.

It would have been interesting to see if Ilsa had actually managed to stop him for good, if he was really willing to let her, well, dominate him like that, but Winston was taking no chances. He quickly continued before anyone could steal his moment.

"It only makes sense if the leg somehow gave something away it wasn't supposed to – maybe the shard was somehow stuck in it? And its removal would have left a suspicious wound, so they decided to take away the complete leg? They probably didn't expect the mortician to note the clean cut…."

"But then what is so important about the shard?" Ames was still turning the shard's image up and down with the help of the computer's touchscreen. This really was a cool feature.

"Hopefully Guerrero's guy at the crime lab will tell us", Chance replied.

"And if not, I'm sure Abs will help."

Chance couldn't help but smile. It was good they had all decided to come down here. There was a lot more to this case than it had seemed at first glance.

It had taken him an awfully long time to come to this realization, but shit of this kind was better not to be faced alone.

… … …

"Whoever sent the shard must have had access to the corpse", he said after the box had been delivered to Guerrero's guy. "Let's check the forensics team, see if something pops up."

Easier said than done. Hours later they at least knew the following: After thirty years, only five members of the originally twelve person team were still alive. None of them was still residing in Florida, they had all moved elsewhere, talking to them would require lots of travelling. Chance quickly decided that Penny should stay in his custody. Ames and Ilsa could help keeping her safe. That left…

"I'm not going with Guerrero again!", Winston complained. "Why do you always pair me up with Guerrero?"

Because Guerrero could scare people into answering when Winston's polite approach wasn't enough, but that explanation would probably not appeal to Winston…

"Whoa, that's strange", Ames just then mumbled. "I've taken a look at the DODs of the dead team members. This one here…" She highlighted a name on the screen "He died two years after the crash. Didn't the sister receive the shard two years after the crash?"

"Could be a coincidence…" Ilsa replied. "Did anyone write down the date on the box' stamp?"

Stupid question, really. Especially after spending years working with the team.

"Same week." Guerrero accessed another photo file and showed them an up-close of the box. "Dude died the same week the sister received the shard."

None of them believed in coincidences of that extent, not even Ilsa.

At this very moment Guerrero's cell signaled. His guy from the lab. Guerrero put him on speaker.

"According to the luminol test the thing at one point must have been covered in blood."

They all nodded. This confirmed Winston's shard-stuck-in-body theory.

"But I've also found something else. The sample you gave me contained phosphor. You said it was from a plane crash? Well, they don't use phosphor for air planes."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_Phosphor. A chemical element. Symbol P, atomic number 15. Multivalent nonmetal of the nitrogen group. Elemental phosphor exists in two major forms, white phosphor and red phosphor. Guerrero's guy had found white phosphor on the shard. _

_Not good. __Not good at all. _

_Most phosphor compounds are used in the production of artificial fertilizers. Plants remove phosphor from the soil when they grow. Fertilizers put it back. Phosphor is very essential for life. Among other things it is, as a phosphate, a component of DNA, RNA and ATP. _

_Human inventive spirit, however, has made white phosphor also essential for death, especially under belligerent circumstances. In Vietnam they called it "Willie Pete" or simply "WP". WP grenades were pretty much constantly used for the snow white clouds they produced – perfect visual cover. _

_Unfortunately phosphor doesn't only produce smoke. It also burns fiercely and is hard to extinguish. Water is no option, mud sometimes works. White phosphor bomb victims often describe how their clothes were set on fire almost immediately, like all other inflammable objects within the blast radius. Hair is inflammable, too, by the way. _

_Nowadays WP bombs are rare, but till the end of the 1990's they were still used in short-range missiles._

_Short range missiles…_

"Penny? Penny, wake up. We need to talk to you." Chance gently touched their sleeping client's shoulder.

"What's the matter?", she mumbled drowsily, then fell back into sleep.

Sigh. Guerrero and his little chemical helper had been thorough.

"Wouldn't have thought we'd figure it out this fast", he shrugged.

"New rule on drugging clients", Ilsa declared. "No spiked drinks unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Care to explain your definition of "absolutely necessary"?", Guerrero asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"When they're getting on _my_ nerves."

Half an hour later, however, they had managed to completely wake her. "So, who of the mafia bosses was it?", she asked eagerly. Apparently she had no problem at all with the fact that a) someone had tried poisoning her and b) the team was doing all the work for her.

A certain kind of ignorance can be a blessing. Penny Cleves probably slept well even without chemical help from Guerrero.

"None of them", Winston stated calmly, hoping the graveness of his voice would somehow stop her from being so insufferably smug.

Predictably, it was to no avail. She saw his serious face and said, rather panicky: "Don't tell me it was terrorists. Terrorists are so uninteresting. 9/11 really killed that market."

Everybody stared at her. Except Guerrero. "That would fall under your definition, wouldn't it?", he asked Ilsa.

The look on Ilsa's face implied that she would agree with a whole array of other substances in Penny Cleves' drink, substances that would cause her to do everything _but _sleep. The Marshall Pucci Foundation had had a small branch office in one of the towers.

Chance accessed a file on the computer and showed Penny a radar picture.

"Back in the 1980s they only made one pic per minute", he explained. "This one is two minutes before the crash – the plane is perfectly on course." He moved the cursor, switched to another picture. "This is one minute before the crash. See the dim dot right next to the plane? The experts identified it as a heat shadow, a common phenomenon with the old radar technique…" He showed them the last picture – lots of dots. The smashed pieces of the plane.

"The dot wasn't a heat shadow." Winston took over from Chance. "Three aircraft carriers were in the vicinity of the plane's route, the French Clemenceau, the British HMS Invincible and the USS Enterprise…"

Penny Cleves eyes rounded.

"_Not _the spaceship", Ames groaned.

Chance nodded. "They were most likely simulating battle situations that involved aerial combat. Drones are still in common use for firing practice, and they were back then, too. Judging from the dimness of this dot" he showed Penny the first picture again "this is a drone, probably off course."

"We think a jet from one of the carriers was appointed to shoot it down. The pilot located the drone but either didn't see or didn't care about the civilian air plane close by. This kind of practice is often done from quite a distance and he probably relied on the on-board computer of his ammunition to find the correct target."

Penny Cleves gasped. Finally she was beginning to understand the seriousness of the situation.

Or was she?

"He launched an infrared controlled rocket. Infrared technology is heat based. The DC-9's exhaust fumes must have been hotter than the drone – the rocket was diverted…"

"Oh no. Don't tell me the military was involved", Penny blurted out.

"Well, this shouldn't be such a surprise, considering that we already told you about the girl with the naval tattoo…" Winston spoke very slowly, a sure sign that he was on the verge of exploding.

"I was hoping that was a coincidence!" It was unbelievable, she actually said that in all seriousness.

Maybe because professionalism demanded it or maybe because Ilsa simply wanted to see this impertinent person suffer, she nodded at Chance and he opened another file.

"We went through the lists of pilots that were on duty on the carriers at that time, hoping we might find somebody who wanted to ease his conscience after all these years. It is impossible that at least some of the pilots didn't realize the connection between the firing practice and the airplane crash", Chance explained. "What we found was the Communauté Lionceau, a squadron that specialized in aerobatics and was based on the Clemenceau."

Normally he would have warned a client prior to opening the file, but in the case of Penny Cleves… The file contained a photo of a burning airfield, burning debris everywhere, horribly injured people, others in terrified flight…

"Six months after the airplane crash three quarters of the Communauté Lionceau perished during an ill-fated stunt on a flight day in Maine. They and seventy spectators, families, children… The disaster was later attributed to pilot error by the inquiry board that was half British, half US-American because the flight day had been a joint British-American project."

"Wait, are you telling me that the military of THREE countries hushed up the whole thing and that they didn't refrain from killing their own people?" Now Penny Cleves was slowly losing color.

"Hell of a scandal", Guerrero nodded. "You won't even need a new identity, once this is published they can't touch you, they'll be busy enough facing law suits from the families."

Everybody except Penny frowned – Guerrero, _comforting _a client?

"Unless of course they manage to ward them all off because there's no real proof, just a shard of unknown origin, a dim dot on a thirty year old picture and lots of potential witnesses who are, unfortunately, all dead."

He smiled at her.

"In that case you might indeed have to deal with a retaliation campaign."

Ilsa, behind Penny's back, was making hectic motions. Scaring Penny too much might result in…

"I'm not going to write that article", Penny stated firmly. "I'm definitely not going to spend the rest of my life on the run. For what?"

Ilsa sighed. Now they had a problem. They couldn't launch the article themselves, it would endanger their future activities… the CIA incident after they had found out about Marshall's true circumstances of death had made that very clear – don't mess with the authorities. They had been tiptoeing the line when they had retrieved the body of Guerrero's father, they couldn't afford this kind of stunt again. And there wasn't really anyone they'd burden with this kind of trouble either.

Guerrero, however, was unfazed. "I somehow expected this", he said, took out his cell and sent an already prepared text message.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"I can't believe you did this…" Ilsa was pacing up and down the bedroom of the Florida hotel suite they were still staying in. "She's a client, for heaven's sake!"

Her words rolled off Guerrero like water off a duck's back. He poured himself a drink and held out an empty glass at her. She violently shook her head. He shrugged his shoulders and offered it to Chance.

"But he did. Now would you sit down, please? You're making me nervous." Chance accepted the glass with a nod. Guerrero poured him a generous amount and retrieved another glass from the small lacquered cabinet by the window.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm the last person to agree with Guerrero's methods, but for him this is pretty much par for the course and you know him well, so…" Winston accepted a drink from Guerrero, too.

"You're making all of us nervous with your pacing around, Ilsa", Ames said, walked over to Chance, took the glass from his hand and drank a sip from it.

"Have you forgotten who just walked through the door? Accompanied by two heavily armed bodyguards? And we _let_ him pass through, just like that? To talk to our CLIENT?" Ilsa grabbed Guerrero's glass and knocked back about a quarter of its content, twenty-five year old Scotch.

It was a very good hotel.

"_You_ didn't want to help her in the first place, dude", Guerrero reminded her calmly.

"Not helping her and leaving her to TONY BELVILACQUA are two completely different things!" Ilsa reached for Guerrero's glass again, but this time he moved it out of her range.

"Didn't see a steamer trunk anywhere, don't think she's in immediate danger." Chance took a sip from his glass, then handed it back to Ames. "Now sit down and let Guerrero pour you a drink. It'll soothe your nerves."

"I don't need a drink!", she hissed, grabbed Guerrero's glass and emptied it completely.

Everyone except Guerrero stared at her. They had paid attention while she had been busy working herself into a frenzy about Belvilacqua's sudden appearance.

"Ilsa?", Ames finally spoke up, very cautiously.

"Yes?" Ilsa put the glass back down.

Ames hesitated.

"Never steal Guerrero's drink", Winston cautiously hinted.

Ilsa stared at him, stared at the empty glass she had just put down… "What did you do?"

"It's harmless…", Guerrero said and got himself a new glass.

For a moment Ilsa just stood motionless. "I don't feel anything", she finally stated rather panicky. "What…?"

"Check your tongue." He was still completely calm and unfazed.

She raced into the bathroom.

"BLOODY HELL!"

"You sure that was a good idea?", Chance asked Guerrero.

"Distraction", he shrugged.

"Can't believe you two are still together." Winston poured himself another drink.

Before Guerrero could reply, Ilsa came dashing out of the bathroom.

"YOU DYED MY TONGUE BLUE!"

"Yellow wouldn't have suited you."

Ilsa was speechless – she was used to a lot from Guerrero, but this? Now? How could he…?

The door to the adjacent room opened and out called Tony Belvilacqua. "Ms. Cleves and I have come to an agreement."

… … …

Penny Cleves was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, pale and shaking. Chance did feel sorry for her, but he felt more sorry for the victims of the plane crash, the poor girl who had hung herself in the remains of the wreck, the member of the autopsy team that had passed on the shard and paid with his life for it, the French pilots… this case was about so much more than simply Penny Cleves.

"Ms. Cleves and I agree that a scandal as big as this just can't be kept under wraps", Tony Belvilacqua began. "It's a pity that we don't have more evidence to support the story so that court-wise justice will probably never be served. But the newspaper story will at least tell the people the truth, even though not everyone will believe it. It's the only thing that can be done."

Penny made a soft sobbing-squeaking sound.

"Of course that'll make Ms. Cleves a target", Belvilacqua continued. "If she could prove her story the military couldn't touch her, public interest would be way too intense, they couldn't afford putting her away, but without proof… they'll probably wait a couple of months and then… "

Penny sobbed louder.

"But no need to worry, I promised her lifelong protection by the Belvilacqua family. She discovered the truth about my niece's death, I'll make sure nobody touches her for writing the article that brings it all to light."

Penny was positively crying now. Everyone was well aware of what Belvilacqua was not saying: Should she not write the article, she'd become a target too… and probably fish food, served in a steamer trunk.

Did the team members feel sorry for her? Yes, with the exception of Guerrero, they did. But this was, as it dawned on Ilsa while she watched Penny Cleves becoming smaller and smaller on her chair, a no-win situation. Penny had played with fire and had gotten scorched. They had made sure she wouldn't be burnt, but that was it. There were more people affected in this game than just her, people who hadn't eagerly entered it for profit. Innocent victims. They deserved some sort of help, too.

… … …

On their way back to Florida nobody said much. Tony Belvilacqua had thanked them for their help – gratitude from a multiple murderer and mafia boss… while their original client sat in the back of his car, weeping. That did leave a bad taste…

Speaking of…

Halfway through the flight Ilsa poured Guerrero a drink and handed it to him. He knocked it down without hesitation.

"Aren't you in the least worried that I spiked it?", she asked.

"You're smarter than that", came his reply.

A minute later his tongue started prickling as if a thousand ants were crawling over it.

"It's harmless", Ilsa told him. "The sensation will die down soon. Just give it a couple of minutes."

Everyone on the plane held their breaths, awaiting Guerrero's reaction in various stages of anxiety.

Everyone except Ilsa, that is. She was giving Guerrero an outright challenging look.

Guerrero rested his eyes on her, not a single muscle in his face giving away what he was thinking.

Then suddenly he nodded.

"You've got balls", he said. And the gleam in his eyes spoke of pride.

Winston groaned. He still found it hard to believe that these two were together.

… … …

As the plane touched down in San Francisco, everyone was rather keen on leaving. It had been an exhausting week, although their client was still alive the case hadn't ended incredibly well… they all longed for some sort of distraction. Winston was thinking of food, while Chance and Ames, just like Ilsa and Guerrero, were thinking in a different direction.

Anyway, none of them was terribly pleased when Ilsa bumped into an old billionaire friend of hers and had to walk over to him for a chat. He seemed agitated about something and was pointing in the direction of one of the private hangars.

Guerrero leaned back against a wall, hidden in the building's shadow, watching Ilsa and her friend from a distance and waiting. "We'll take a cab", Chance shouted in her direction, already steering Ames in the direction of the taxi stand, one hand on her hip.

Just then Ilsa called out to them, signaling to come over and join her. "Someone left a graffiti on Dean's jet", she told them.

"Vandalism isn't exactly our main sphere of activity, Ilsa", Winston reminded her with strained politeness. He was hungry and a drink or two seemed like a good idea, too.

"You might want to see this", Ilsa said. She stepped away from the hangar's door she had been blocking so far, revealing her friend's spray-painted jet.

Ames gasped. The rest could do nothing but stare.

A green dragon was adorning the plane. The same dragon that was tattooed into Chance's and Guerrero's upper arm.


	8. Ryuu

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ Ryuu ~**_

_"It happened twenty years ago. But still not a day goes by that I don't think about my son. He was only eight. Eight! We had bought him a new bike, told him he'd be able to ride it as soon as he'd be out of hospital… It's still stowed away in my garage… my husband didn't want it when he moved out…" _

_The woman's voice was constantly changing between hissing and sobbing, at the moment more leaning towards the sobbing part. _

_"Of course we knew it was a grave illness… but surgery went well. They actually managed to remove everything. We had hope! But then he developed this infection… First the fever… then the breathing problems…. His organs began to fail, one after another… The doctors were at a loss… all we could do was sit and pray… He died after three days. They felt like three years." _

_Tears were running down her face now, but her voice was taking on a raspier tone. _

_"My husband just wouldn't accept it. He couldn't even mourn. Like a madman he started pulling strings to get our son's files, he questioned nurses, doctors, hired a private detective… when he wanted an exhumation so that an autopsy could be performed, I couldn't take it anymore…."_

_She swallowed drily. _

_"But he was right. In the end it turned out he had been right from the very beginning. Some doctor had struck an under-the-table deal with a pharmaceutical company. They produced substandard antibiotics which he mixed with the high quality stuff. Lots of patients simply were sick a little longer… but in my son's case the infection took hold of his weakened body and wouldn't let go… In the course of the official investigation they found a dozen similar cases…" _

_In an oddly determined gesture she took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. _

_"The managers of the pharmaceutical company received lifelong sentences. But the doctor, the greedy bastard who had killed my son so he could buy himself a boat, a fancy car or whatever, he was released on bail and fled. My husband had warned them he would – he yelled at the judge not to let him out. For that he was put into custody for a night… contempt of court. He hung himself in the holding cell."_

_When she looked up to meet his eyes, they were tear free. _

_"I tried to move on. Went to therapy. Re-married twice. Bullshit. All those therapy sessions, travels to foreign countries, new jobs and new love interests have only shown me one thing, time and time again: My life ended the day my son died and I'm sick and tired trying to "work" on this fact. No more therapies. I want revenge." _

_"Well, Mrs. Watson, you've come to the right place." Joubert took the carafe and poured his new client a generous amount of Scotch, fighting the urge to smile. _

_This was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The ideal job for Junior. He'd eat it all up, hook, line and sinker. No complicated explanation why this guy deserved to die needed this time around – he definitely DID deserve to die, even by non-assassin standards. _

_"Consider it done", he told her. _

_Heaving a big sigh, the woman leaned back in the visitor's chair. For the first time that evening Joubert saw her smile. _

… … …

_Guerrero, however, was far from smiling when the Old Man informed him about his next job. His expression was usually devoid of any open displays of emotion. This time around, though, his slightly twitching lips clearly indicated annoyance. _

_Joubert always watched Guerrero meticulously. He was dangerous. A very valuable asset to the business, but damn dangerous. Keeping him in line was a challenge. On the one hand Guerrero needed to be aware of the fact that going against him or his business interests would inevitably mean death, on the other hand pushing Guerrero too hard could result in fierce retaliation, no matter what. _

_"Can't you send him alone? He's out of diapers, isn't he?", Guerrero grumbled. _

_So far the Old Man had always managed to make it very clear who was calling the shots. He wasn't going to change that now. _

_"Still pissed about the exploding truck thing?", Joubert grinned. _

_Guerrero knew the Old Man well enough not to mistake his light tone for actual relaxedness. Nevertheless he wasn't willing to be stuck with babysitting Joubert's pet project again. _

_"One day that adrenalin junkie mentality of his will get the wrong guy killed. Just want to make sure it's not me."_

_"I need a tracker to find that doctor. Twenty years is a long time." _

_Inwardly, Guerrero snorted. After twenty years most people became careless. They were actually easier to find the more time had passed since they pulled a disappearance act. But Joubert didn't necessarily need to know that. _

_"I track him down and you sent Junior alone. Cool with you?" _

_Joubert's eyes rested coldly on Guerrero. "I said you're going to accompany him. All the way." _

_Guerrero decided that he, in theory, had two options – openly refuse and thus risk the Old Man's wrath or play along and use his special methods to make sure Junior wouldn't pull anymore crazy stunts. De facto, however, Joubert did not take disobedience lightly and had far-reaching connections. Going against him was practically suicidal. _

_So a job with Junior it would be. _

_Great. _

… … …

_Junior read the collection of newspaper articles one more time. Although by now he knew what was waiting for him, the details were still hard to stomach. Twelve people had died because that doctor had lined his pockets… five of them children. And there was probably a much higher number of unknown cases, with victims still unavenged. _

_Well, he was going to see about that. _

_If only he didn't have to take Guerrero with him. Total psychopath, that man. Brilliant, yeah, but... _

_Junior despised people who enjoyed inflicting pain on others – and Guerrero's methods were manifold. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_The Borneo rainforest is 130 million years old. That means it's the oldest rainforest in the world. It's home to about 15.000 species of flowering plants, 3.000 different kinds of trees, 221 species of terrestrial mammals and 420 species of birds. A refuge for all creatures great and small, the Asian Elephant, the Sumatran Rhinoceros, the Bornean Clouded Leopard, the Hose's Civet, the Dayak Fruit Bat... and a certain doctor who fled from the USA to escape lifelong imprisonment after being directly responsible for the death of at least twelve people, almost half of them children. _

_Doctor Philipp Daphne had betrayed people who had not only trusted, but also been completely dependent on him. He had preyed on the most defenseless: Weakened from disease, close to death already, his greed had delivered the final blow. There was no doubt in Junior's mind that he deserved to die. _

_Guerrero couldn't have cared less. _

_The only thing that pissed _him_ off was the fact that the doctor of all places had chosen the jungle of Borneo as a hideout. And to top it all, he was residing in an ancient temple, exact location unknown. Guerrero really hoped that his source was erring on that point. Junior was already crazy enough as it was; he definitely didn't need some Indiana Jones bullshit setting to additionally fuel his high risk mentality. _

_Unfortunately his sources tended to be accurate. Probably had to do with the repercussions they had to face if they weren't. In this particular case, however, Guerrero would have been more than willing to let it slide. _

_The closer they came to the backcountry, though, the clearer it became that there indeed was a temple in the heart of the jungle – a refuge for haunted souls, striving to turn a fresh leaf. Everything indicated that after about two years of aimless to and fro, Dr. Daphne's flight had ended there. The locals called the place _candi penuh harapan_._

_"If that's Indonesian for _Temple of Doom_ I'm out", Guerrero decided grimly. They had reached the very outskirts of civilization now, a logging town by a grimy red dirt road. Their plan was to enter the only bar and introduce themselves as lost souls looking for the meaning of life. Hopefully somebody would point them in the direction of the temple. _

_Guerrero thoughtfully rested his eyes on Junior, who was steering the jeep with an enthusiasm that he had previously thought only five year olds could muster. The airstream was tousling his blond hair, his skin was carefully tanned… at least he had left his ridiculously fashionable sunglasses at home, but nevertheless he looked so much like an American sunnyboy poster child, the mere idea he could be haunted, lost or desperately striving to change his life was ridiculous. Their cover would blow in no time._

… … …

_The bar was a dimly lit shack that smelt strongly of tuak, the local beer brew, rice wine and the sickly sweet smoke of rokok kretek cigarettes. Several rather big dogs were enjoying a sunny spot on the grimy floor, snoring deeply, despite the ruckus a group of card players in the back produced. Guerrero and Chance sat down at the bar and ordered kue sus kering. _

_The waitress was a good-looking woman of the kind that in a couple of years would put on too much weight, but for now she was a sight for sore eyes. Which of course didn't escape Junior's notice… Guerrero groaned inwardly. _

_"We're here on business, dude, remember?", he muttered. _

_"I'm just blending in", Junior replied, giving him that million-watt-smile that usually opened so many doors for him. _

_"Not cool, dude."_

_Junior sighed in frustration – Guerrero didn't understand a thing. If he managed to charm the waitress a little, she'd probably tell them where to find the temple without that ridiculous "lost souls"-cover. The idea that someone could break with everything and seek refuge in a temple, of all places, to find some sort of "inner peace" was totally alien to him. _

_All this talk about meditation, balance, karma… New Age bullshit. He had spent enough years out on the street to know that what Joubert was currently giving him, a trade, a home, appreciation, was what really counted in life. Not some abstract ideas about morals that only people born on the bright side could afford. _

_Anger rose in Junior as the "born on the bright side" thought stirred up some deeply buried memories. Images from his hellish childhood days flashed up in his mind like lightning in a pitch black desert, causing his adrenalin level to rise significantly… which probably played a part in the sequence of events that unfolded in the next few minutes. _

_Guerrero had barely time to register that Junior had somewhat tensed up when the shattering of glass from the corner of the gamblers had both of them whirl around. The sleeping dogs woke up and jumped to their feet. _

_One of the men had grabbed the waitress by her wrist. She was angrily yelling at him, trying to break free, but another man had sneaked his arm around her waist and pulled her backwards so that she landed on his lap. _

_The waitress screamed in outrage, finally managed to wrest her hand free and used it immediately to deliver a resounding slap to the man's face. Angry and humiliated he grabbed her hair and violently tore at it, bending her backwards – she cried out in pain, struggled…_

_Junior stepped in. _

_He had jumped up so fast, all Guerrero could do was race after him. Junior, however, definitely had the longer legs and was already punching the hair-grabbing guy in the face when Guerrero finally managed to reach him. _

_Predictably hair-grabbing guy's buddies didn't take kindly to some orang asing sticking his nose into their business. _

_Neither did the waitress. _

_Or the dogs. _

_The woman released a hail of expletives on Junior and Guerrero. Apparently she was bilingual when it came to swearing – they could clearly make out "jackass" and the F-word. _

_Apparently hair grabber was her husband and as much as she hated his guts, nobody had the right to punch him in the face except her. _

_The dogs let them know in the universal language of baring their teeth and growling that they were significantly pissed off, too. _

_And all that with the card players drawing their Parang Pendeks – Indonesian bush knives. _

_This called for a strategic retreat. _

_But would Junior willingly turn tail? Darn, another dilemma! Guerrero's instincts told him to leave the idiot behind, should he insist on fighting this out to keep his male pride intact. On the other hand, leaving Joubert's favorite behind would, should he ever find out, be equivalent to signing one's own death sentence. _

_"Guerrero! Brother Dave and the window!" Junior whirled around, delivered a powerful kick to hair grabber's chin and punched his buddy in the gut. Guerrero understood, knocked out the guy right next to him, pushed him towards the now madly barking and ready-to-attack dogs and raced to the small window Junior had pointed out to him. _

_Apparently strategic retreat was not too alien a concept to Junior after all…. Not badly thought out, Guerrero had to give him that. _

_... ... ..._

_They ran down the street till they both couldn't breathe anymore. Nobody seemed to follow them. _

_Good. _

_But unfortunately they had left all their stuff behind except the basic weaponry they had attached to their bodies. _

_Great._

_"Idiot", Guerrero spat. "Hope the adrenaline kick was worth it."_

_The anger that was still raging inside Junior urged him to grab the smaller man by the throat and explain to him in no uncertain terms that he had behaved perfectly in congruence with their cover – lost souls would very likely step in when a woman was in danger, wouldn't they? _

_But Guerrero would probably stab him with one of his knives before his fingertips could ever touch his skin. Psycho or not, Junior had to grant Guerrero one thing: He was one of the best in the business. Disgruntled he trudged after him. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_They walked away from the logging town, a bit down the road they had come in on. At first they stayed away from the tarmac, in case they were being followed, but after a while, with the approaching dusk, it became too difficult and dangerous to use the rain forest's undergrowth as cover. Too many predatory nocturnal animals around… _

_The night was filled with sounds. Crickets, frogs, the occasional screeching of birds… Despite the darkness surrounding them it was hot and humid, sweat was running down their necks, made their skin itch and their shirts sticky. The plan was to head to the next settlement and see if they could find more information about the temple there. It was risky, though. News travelled fast among the loggers and it might very well be that they'd be welcomed by an angry mob of hair grabber's friends. _

_Headlights from a car coming up behind them bathed the road in glary yellow light. A furry creature quickly scurried out of the way and disappeared in a rustling bush. Both Junior and Guerrero reached for their guns without pulling them. They still expected the card players wanting a round two. _

_A rusty truck pulled up by their side, slowed down and finally chugged along with their weary footsteps. "Hey, need a ride?", the driver yelled in accented, but nevertheless surprisingly good English. "You shouldn't be walking around in the darkness without flashlights! Want to become roadkill for the leopards?" _

_Junior was just about to switch on his trademark smile and thank him when Guerrero all of a sudden pulled his gun and pointed it straight at the driver's head. _

_"Good idea, dude. Get out! Now! And your buddy too!" _

_Junior hadn't even noticed the other man riding shotgun. _

_"Hands up!"_

_Somehow Junior wasn't comfortable with this – the men had been kind enough to offer them a ride and as a token of gratitude they were robbing them? Granted, there was a job to get done, but why couldn't they simply accept…_

_"Not so fast." _

_Much more than the gruff, unfamiliar voice behind their backs it was the distinct clicking of a released safety catch that made them stop dead in their tracks. Oh great, there had been a third man in the back of the truck. And he was now pointing a gun at them. Judging from the clicking, a shotgun of considerable size. _

_Gruff voice said something in Indonesian and since neither the driver nor the man from the passenger's seat reacted it became clear that there had to be at least one other person in the back._

_A moment later, when two lanky but very fierce looking youths proceeded to tie them up, they knew for sure that they had to deal with three more men. _

_Junior couldn't believe it – Guerrero, with all his experience, had foolishly brought this upon them. The driver had been nothing but nice and he… Not too long ago, during the job with the exploding truck, Guerrero had told him "A lot of productive things happen when you put a gun to somebody's head" – well, this time his motto had obviously backfired. _

_"Franky, Guerrero?", Junior asked quietly. Guerrero nodded. Franky. Swiftly and completely in unison they wheeled around, used their tied hands to chokehold the lanky youths, tossed them towards gruff voice, pulled their guns and fired as a parting gift. For the second time this day they turned tail and ran. _

_This job was not going well…_

_The driver and the man riding shotgun either didn't care about their buddies' fate or decided they were beyond rescue. In any case, they pulled their guns and followed Guerrero and Junior in close pursuit._

_"We've got to get off the road!", Junior yelled and a second later they both disappeared into the thick jungle. There was a river not too far away, if they followed it they wouldn't need the road for orientation. _

_Among the trees the darkness was considerably more intense. The moon was shining brightly that night and on the tarmac they had been able to see reasonably well, but here? For a while Junior just rushed forward, hoping he was too fast for any snake or spider to get him. Branches, thin and thick, thorny and moss-covered, hit his chest and shoulders. The creatures of the rainforest loudly lamented the disturbance of their night's rest. _

_Suddenly, however, something dawned on Junior. _

_The jungle was in uproar, sounds everywhere, birds, mammals, insects, reptiles… but one thing was missing… _

_The rustling and swishing another human being on the run would produce. _

_"Guerrero?", Junior breathed into the darkness. _

_No answer. _

_Where was Guerrero? _

_Just then he heard human voices, angry human voices… he couldn't make out what they were saying, but they probably belonged to their pursuers… maybe they had caught Guerrero… it was, almost literally, a shot in the dark, but Junior had to try. It didn't even occur to him that he could simply leave Guerrero behind._

_Using the voices for orientation, he managed to retrace his steps till he got closer to the road again. There they were, the driver, his passenger, and Guerrero, on his knees, the driver pointing a gun at his head. _

_Junior didn't hesitate. He still had his gun and he used it. This time it was truly a shot in the dark. Two, to be exact. _

_Oh my, the jungle exploded with sounds – birds flew up, shrieking madly, apes fled and somewhere, in the distance, something very large roared up in anger. The rainforests of Borneo are home to the Bornean clouded leopard… _

_Usually these wild cats are rather shy and prefer fleeing to fighting when it comes to humans, but a pissed off leopardess worried about her young ones is a different story. The animal's roar was drawing closer fast. _

_Guerrero could barely roll his eyes – Chased by a jungle cat! He had known it! With Junior these kinds of things were just BOUND to happen! – before they both had to beat it again. Luckily the river, rather large and very swift flowing since it had been straightened to allow the transport of felled trees, provided protection from the angry leopardess. Clinging to a piece of wood, they floated down the river. With a little luck the river's stream velocity was too high for crocodiles…._

_"Hope you're happy now, dude", Guerrero snarled. _

_"What the hell are you talking about?"_

_"Should be enough adrenaline for one day, even by your standards." Although, inwardly, he _was _glad that Junior's need for thrill and action had made him come back. He owed him. _

_"YOU pointed a gun at the driver's head for no reason at all!", Junior snarled back. _

_Now, Guerrero could have explained that he had known from the very beginning that the driver and his buddy were planning to rob them, the half-hidden face of the passenger had been a dead giveaway, not to mention the sawed off shotgun that had peeked between them. Robberies of that kind were common around there… _

_And Junior could have explained that he had neither helped the waitress nor Guerrero for adrenalin reasons… _

_But they both weren't much into words and, more importantly, they both noticed at the same time that the river's stream velocity had significantly increased in the past few minutes… _

_"Wasn't there a waterfall on the map somewhere?", Junior asked, slightly alarmed. _

_As if on cue the water began to swirl, toss and turn them and their small piece of wood in all directions. Uh-oh._

_Guerrero shouted at Junior._

_His message was almost drowned out by the mighty roaring of the waterfall they were now rapidly approaching and without any chance to reach the shore, but nevertheless Junior could make out one single word very clearly: _

_"DUDE!" _


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**_

_In movies they make it appear as if falling off something of great height takes an eternity. They slow down to sometimes minutes what actually takes a split second. You don't really see anything, or maybe you do, but the visual images rain down on you so fast, your brain can't organize them and thus all you perceive is a blur. Unless you fall off something – say a waterfall in the heart of the Bornean rainforest for example – in the middle of the night. _

_Then all you see is blackness._

_The trick to survive landing in water after falling off a huge building/geological formation/machinery is to hit the water's surface as upright as possible, feet first. Of course you should make sure that the area where you're planning to land is sufficiently deep and free from rocks. Should that for some reason – say darkness and high stream velocity for example – be impossible… well, good luck._

_Guerrero and Junior both hit the water so hard that the impact knocked them unconscious. The vicious whirls at the foot of the waterfall sucked them deep into the icy-cold forest lake that looked small but underneath the surface actually stretched out for several miles thanks to a labyrinth of underwater caves. _

_No nosy expedition had so far stumbled upon it and told the world about it, no maps existed. What got lost in there was indeed lost, forever. And a mighty vortex was just carrying both Junior and Guerrero towards the main inlet of the cave system…_

… … …

_The first thing Junior noticed was the warmth. Soft cotton on his skin. Someone had wrapped him into a blanket. _

_He opened his eyes. A sunlit room, high ceilings, walls made of massive gray stones. A scent of flowers, rain and incense was in the air. _

_Incense?_

_Junior looked around. There was Guerrero lying on a cot right next to him. He was wrapped into a blanket, too, and just like him he was in the process of slowly waking up. His small eyes blinked at him and Junior released a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he had been holding and didn't really think about. _

_"This the temple?", Guerrero mumbled. _

_From somewhere outside the walls the muffled sound of a gong answered his question._

_"See, the game plan worked out", Junior replied, grinning broadly. _

_"Dude, if almost getting beaten up and robbed, then chased by a leopard and finally falling down a waterfall were part of your plan from the very beginning, I'm going to kill you." _

_The appearance of a middle-aged man in long, loose white pants, wiping sweat from his reddened face with a white towel, stopped Junior from giving a flippant reply that would have probably sealed his fate._

_"So, how are our guests doing?", the man asked a lanky young boy at the far end of the room neither Junior nor Guerrero had noticed before. The boy answered in a low voice, they couldn't quite get what he was saying, but apparently it found the man's appreciation. _

_Smiling friendly, he advanced towards them, towel around his neck. He was bare-chested and had probably dropped in after some sort of training session. An intricate dark greenish dragon tattoo adorned his upper arm. _

_"My name is Master Ryuu", he introduced himself. __"Welcome at candi penuh harapan, the Temple of Hope. I'm the master of the temple, which means I first and foremost have to make sure that the continuous supply of homemade anti-itch cream never ceases. The mosquitoes around here… Some people also insist I'm kind of a spiritual leader, but responsibility for anti-itch cream definitely comes first. I know some very powerful recipes." His dark grey eyes twinkled as he spoke. _

_"We found you caught in one of our water filters down in the caves." Master Ryuu proceeded to check Junior's rather bruised right arm. "We rarely get visitors down here."_

_"We were looking for this temple…", Junior let the sentence trail off as if weighed down by sudden strong emotions, a very serious expression shadowing his face. _

_Guerrero couldn't help but admire the Golden Boy's ability to blend into a situation. Not to mention his determination. They had just fallen off a waterfall, had barely survived an extremely dangerous vortex, and he was already on the job again. Professionalism had never struck him as a characteristic of Joubert's favorite. Brains, yes, damn good fighter and marksman, too, but professionalism? Well, maybe he had his moments._

_For it did take a professional to come up with their cover story so quickly and believably after everything that had happened and especially right after waking up from being knocked out by a waterfall. Junior really looked lost and desperate as he told Master Ryuu a sad story of personal failure and the deep wish to turn a fresh leaf. _

_They had spent a whole night making up this bullshit. Half the time Junior had seemed to be dozing off and Guerrero had seriously doubted he'd be able to remember even half of it (and, in the back of his mind, already devised a plan on how to teach him paying attention once and for all). This now was definitely a surprise. _

_Master Ryuu listened thoughtfully to Junior's report as he slowly examined first Junior's, then Guerrero's injuries. He showed no visible reaction to what he was hearing but at the same time he gave the impression of being all ears._

_Finally Junior stopped talking. Ryuu rested his eyes on both of them for a long time. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking, how he would decide. Would he see through their cover? He had a lot of experience with real confessions, had he spotted inconsistencies in Junior's story? They had lost their guns in the river, but maybe the knives attached to their ankles made the Master suspicious?_

_In the end he slowly nodded. _

_"This temple was created as a refuge for those who failed and now strive to do better. The road to redemption is long and hard. We're here so you don't have to walk it alone." He first gently touched Junior's forehead, then Guerrero's. _

_"You've come to the right place."_

_He got up and headed toward the room's exit. "Sleep now, you need rest. We tend to get up early here." _

_The moment the Master was gone and they could be sure the boy wouldn't hear them, Junior quickly turned to Guerrero._

_"It's him, isn't it?"_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **_

_Boy, did they get up early at the Temple! The first few days Junior and Guerrero were allowed to rest from their numerous bruises after the incident with the waterfall, but then… _

_Master Ryuu moved them into the huge dormitory hall where all residents of the Temple slept on mats on the floor, even the Master himself. The only thing that distinguished his sleeping place from the others was that his mat was lying on a pedestal that allowed him an overview of the hall and also made it possible for the residents to see him during evening meditation. _

_To Junior's and Guerrero's great surprise they found their knives placed on top of their neatly folded clothes right next to their sleeping mats. _

_"Many dangerous things lurk in this jungle", the Master explained to them. "I trust you only to use your blades when you feel you have no other choice." _

_Junior and Guerrero soon came to the conclusion that killing Ryuu wouldn't pose much of a problem. He actively took part in all sorts of exercises, liked to meditate on high roofs while darkness was falling and in general made an easy target. _

_Nevertheless they had to stick around for now and live up to their cover. Killing someone was one thing. The question of a proper retreat, however, was just as important and at the moment they were at a loss regarding this aspect of the job. They still didn't know where exactly in the rainforest they were, much less how to reach the next outpost of civilization that would offer transportation to an airport or at least an airfield where they could find a pilot. _

_Simply running off into the jungle was impossible. As Ryuu had pointed out quite correctly there were too many dangerous things lurking about. It was a temporary problem, though. The Temple had to get supplies from somewhere, it was not an autarkic entity. Some of the supplies were provided by the small settlement of natives not too far away from the Temple, but despite all the remedies that were made of herbs and stuff the infirmary also had a stash of conventional medicine and that had to come from somewhere. As soon as they managed to figure out the Temple's supply route, Master Ryuu would be history. _

_Till then they had to play along, so when at four thirty the gong's sound that had seemed so subtle through the thick walls of the infirmary was used to wake them all up – damn thing was so loud, it made the floor vibrate – they had to get up and join in the cleansing ritual, meaning all residents gathered in the Temple's inner yard, completely naked (the Temple was men only) and have buckets of icy-cold water poured over their heads. _

_After drying up through running about half a mile ("I really hate jogging!" was Junior's favorite early morning complaint till Guerrero warned him one more time and he'd teach him to REALLY hate it), yes, still naked, it was time for the first sparring session (in pants, of course). Both Guerrero and Junior had already had excessive martial arts training, but what Ryuu taught them…damn, the man was good._

_One day he gave each of them a burning candle and instructed them to fight while holding the candles. If one managed to beat the other and both candles were burning, they'd receive an extra portion of that deliciously spicy rice for lunch that the Temple's cook was rightfully very proud of. If one of the candles in the end was not burning anymore, they'd both be stuck with unsweetened millet gruel. _

_Now how the hell were they supposed to do that? Two kicks from Junior later and his candle had gone out. Guerrero swiftly, while delivering a roundhouse kick, reached over and lit Junior's candle again, with the flame of his own. Ryuu didn't object. _

_A second later he accidentally extinguished his own candle and this time Junior lit it swiftly while trying for a legsweeper at the same time. Again the Master didn't object. _

_Now they understood. The trick was never to let both candles go out at the same time. Damn, that required a lot of coordination, especially difficult since at the same time they were fighting each other. But how were they supposed to end this since an ending usually required a heavy blow… which would probably extinguish one or both candles? _

_It crossed Guerrero's mind that he could use the hot wax from the candle to beat Junior – poured in the face or over the inner sides of the arms it could force him into submission. But he scrapped the plan almost as fast as he had come up with it. _

_Junior was pondering the issue of how to end this, too. It was pretty much impossible not to snuff out at least one candle… Unless of course… there was the option of cheating... _

_Junior wondered if Guerrero would understand. He had no real way of communicating to him that he was planning to lie down for him. Master Ryuu had sharp eyes and heard really well, too… the problem was, to make this look believable, he needed to change his muscle tension. If he relaxed, it would be easy for Guerrero to take him down. But if he got hit by a full force blow of Guerrero's…_

_On the other hand, he hated millet gruel even more than jogging. Junior decided it was worth the risk. Right in front of him Guerrero rose on one leg to get ready for one of his really impressive jump kicks. He turned, twisted, aimed at Junior's chest… and there was the subtlest of glitches in his movement. When his foot touched Junior it did so almost gently. _

_Gosh! Junior couldn't help but admire Guerrero's abilities and his level of self-control as he crashed to the floor, holding on to his burning candle – he must have realized in the split second when he was turning towards Junior that something about his chest had changed. _

_Master Ryuu smiled as he helped him to his feet again. _

_"Well done, both of you."_

… … …

_What Junior was really bad at and Guerrero even worse was meditation. Junior regularly fell asleep during evening meditation and Guerrero, according to Master Ryuu, was good at sitting still and pretending to be meditating, but he didn't allow his mind to wander into the deeper levels of his consciousness. _

_"Do not be afraid of what you might find there", Ryuu told him. _

_"I know exactly what I would find there", Guerrero replied, not elaborating that he'd look at the complete blackness and barrenness of a man who made a living by killing, stealing, torturing and blackmailing other people. _

_"You'd probably be surprised", the Master smiled at him. "Even in the deepest darkness a spark can gleam. Under the right circumstances it might suddenly burst into a flame, enter your heart, make it grow three sizes…" _

_Overhearing Ryuu's words, Junior smiled, too. Not many people compared Guerrero to the Grinch and lived to tell the story. _

_Then he remembered that Master Ryuu wouldn't live either._

… … …

_One night Guerrero and Junior were woken up by Ryuu and one other temple resident, Tuvia, the Master's right hand. Immediately after identifying themselves, they blindfolded them and led them outside. Hands placed on their shoulders they walked them through the jungle for a bit, half a mile maybe. _

_Finally the ground under their feet changed, became harder, and the air felt different, too. Significantly colder. It also smelt a little musty. Nobody said a word, but from the sound of their own breathing both Junior and Guerrero came to the conclusion that they must have entered some sort of cave a couple of minutes before Ryuu actually told them. _

_Unfortunately that wasn't the only thing he told them. _

_"This cave is completely lightless. Its ground is covered with deep holes, some of them are directly connected to the underground stream that you got caught in before we found you. Your task is to find a way out – you can only do this by meditating about the subject. That is your only option. Don't try to feel your way around, you are bound to fall. Meditate!" While he was talking, Ryuu's voice was getting fainter and fainter. He and Tuvia were walking away._

_"You can remove your blindfolds now!", he finally called. Then they heard nothing anymore. _

_"Through meditation?", Junior scoffed. "There must be a trick to this!" _

_The cave was indeed completely lightless. Blindfolds or no blindfolds, it didn't make any difference. The only thing they knew for sure was that they were close to one of the cave's walls. _

_"Maybe he lied about the holes and wanted us to realize that through meditation", Junior mused. _

_Guerrero felt a little around on the ground where he was standing and eventually picked up a loose rock. Crouching down, he sent it rolling over the mossy, slippery stone. _

_TOC clatterclatterclatter… ... ... ... ... SPLASH made the stone._

_Okay, so Ryuu hadn't been lying. _

_"My biggest problem with meditation is that I don't know what to think about", Junior spoke into the long silence that followed. _

_"Dude, the idea is that you don't think at all." _

_"But how are we supposed to find the solution then?" _

_Guerrero sighed. Good question. Maybe… "Let's retrace how we got here… they blindfolded us and led us through the jungle…"_

_"We're about half a mile from the temple and south of the waterfall…" Junior had intently listened for the sound of the Temple's gong and the rushing of the water for orientation. _

_"The distance in the cave was more difficult to measure since they steered us around the holes, but we probably covered another quarter mile…" _

_Junior hissed as the solution dawned on him. _

_"Spit it out, dude." _

_"They steered us with both hands on our shoulders. How did they see where to go?"_

_Good point, but Guerrero didn't really see how this was supposed to help. "Maybe they wore helmets with integrated flashlights…" _

_"That would be reasonable but leave us without a chance to get out of here. No, it must be something different, something laughably easy but unexpected… something crazy."_

_"Well, good to know I've got an expert with me", Guerrero grumbled. _

_Junior started feeling the wall, up and down, up and down, very methodically. _

_"What are you looking for?"_

_Junior hesitated for a moment, then figured what the hell. "A light switch…"_

_"Yeah…", Guerrero scoffed. "Sure."_

Click.

_The sound was almost inaudible, even their trained assassin ears had missed it the first time around. Probably Ryuu and Tuvia had also walked extra loudly to drown it out. _

_Suddenly the whole cave was bathed in blinding artificial light. _

_"Dude…" Guerrero said and shook his head, for the first time not in desperation after Junior had come up with something crazy. _


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_A mighty clap of thunder startled them from their sleep. It echoed from the walls of the dorm, vibrated all along the floors and seemed to make every piece of metal in the temple hum with electricity. _

_Junior sat up and immediately started listening for the sound of rain. They were surrounded by rainforest, neither thunderstorms nor rain were uncommon, but that clap had been damn loud… and where was the rain? _

_No rain. _

_But shouting. Distant shouting – the sentinels? What the hell was going on? _

_Then he recognized the Indonesian word for "fire". _

_"The jungle is burning", Guerrero mumbled, quickly getting up like the rest of the Temple members, not bothering to put a shirt on. It was a sweltering hot night, horribly humid. And now a thunderstorm without rain… the wind could easily spread a fire for miles. _

_Ryuu quickly organized his people into groups and sent them out into the night, hoping they'd be able to keep it under control with mounds and extinguishing agents. _

_It was a coincidence that Junior, Guerrero and Ryuu were the last to leave just when another mighty clap of thunder seemed to shake the very foundations of the Temple. "That was much closer!", Junior yelled. "And it sounded like another direct hit!" _

_"South!", Guerrero shouted, pointing away from the already burning area east of the Temple… in the direction of the small settlement of the natives. Oh no. _

_"They've got a sick ward down there, they need help transporting the patients!" Ryuu's face was stricken with terror. He raced down the narrow path to the village as fast as the darkness allowed. Horribly orange flames were licking at the ink black night sky, lashing out higher than the trees. _

_"The sick ward is full! And the fire is spreading rapidly… we'll never get all patients out in time!", Junior yelled at the Master's retreating back._

_Ryuu didn't reply, he either hadn't heard him because of the hellish noise the frightened jungle animals were making or, more likely, he didn't care. _

_Guerrero, on the other hand, wasn't moving. "The village is a death trap, Junior." _

_"We can't leave him alone there!"_

_"You wanna die a hero?" _

_Junior bit his lip. No, he had no intention of sacrificing himself. But on the other hand it felt completely wrong leaving the settlement to its fate either. There had to be something they could do. There just had to… wait… _

_"Follow me!", he yelled and started running. _

_At first it looked to Guerrero as if Junior was going to follow Ryuu after all. He ran after him and was just trying to estimate how good his chances of tackling him to the ground were when Junior did a 90° turn and headed towards the waterfall. _

_"What the…?" _

_"You've got to help me move the boulders on top! If we block the water's natural path it'll come down the south side and swamp the area!" Junior was already climbing up the steep footpath that led to the waterfall which had not too long ago almost cost them their lives. A high risk maneuver with so little light, but Guerrero followed him nevertheless. _

_"He is no monster", Junior thought. "He wants the people to live, too. Just not at the price of his own life. Going to the village would have meant asking to get killed… But climbing the rocks is merely a risk, not a ticket to the Reaper." It made a lot of sense to him. Using his shoulder for extra pressure, he tried to push a huge boulder towards the water. _

_"Dude, to move that rock you've got to use math." Guerrero picked up a piece of driftwood from the shore, shoved it underneath the stone and used it as a lever. Almost gently the giant thing started rolling, rolling… and landed exactly where they needed it. _

_They worked in silence, except for the few words they needed to coordinate their moves. It was almost unbelievable, but after only a couple of minutes the water indeed began first to impound, than to seek itself another path downhill. _

_In the beginning it was just a trickle, but then… once a certain level was reached, the trickle turned into a mighty stream, roaring downwards. As the loud hiss of the extinguishing flames reached their ears, Guerrero slowly nodded. _

_"Cool, dude. Damn cool." _

… … …

_Down in the settlement they were welcomed by relieved, happy faces all around. Ryuu was covered is soot and sweat, but his eyes were shining. "The village is safe!" _

_"You dammed up our peraian terjun?", Elias, a young man from the settlement who was very proud of his command of the English language asked them. "What a crazy idea!"_

_Both Guerrero and Junior froze. Suddenly all relief and happiness they had felt evaporated with one icy-cold breath of air. As soon as they weren't needed anymore for clearing work, they excused themselves. Without actually talking about it, they chose the longer route back to the Temple. _

… … …

_Peraian terjun... the waterfall's official name was peraian terjun... Now they knew where they were, knew in which direction they would have to go to get back into civilization... _

_The missing piece was found, their plan was complete now._

_For a long while Junior and Guerrero walked side by side in silence. Dawn was breaking and the rainforest slowly became vibrant with birds, insects, reptiles, like it did every day. Life went on as if not mere hours ago all of this had been in grave danger. _

_Finally the Temple came into view._

_"Have you ever... you know... stepped back from a job?", Junior mumbled, not daring to look at Guerrero._

_"So you think the kids the doc saved today somehow make up for those he killed twenty years ago?" _

_Junior averted his face in something he hadn't felt for a long time – shame. Trust Guerrero to lay his finger on exactly the spot that was most vulnerable. _

_"Sit down, dude." Guerrero checked a fallen tree near the path for hidden snakes, then took a seat on the mossy bark. Their clothes were spoilt anyway. Reluctantly Junior sat down next to him, head still lowered. _

_"I'm not going to go into this whole guilt thing cause I simply don't know", Guerrero began, voice strangely different from his usual raspy growl. "Can you make up for bad shit you pulled in the past? Don't know, man.." He shrugged his shoulders. _

_"But what I know is this: We step back from this, Joubert sure is going to send somebody else. And he'll kill us, to send a message to the others." _

_Guerrero wondered if Junior would believe him that the same Joubert who was currently treating him like a son would not hesitate to kill him when his reputation was at risk. Junior didn't object. _

_Guerrero was impressed. The Golden Boy was a lot more realistic about the situation than he had thought. _

_"It's a him or us type of situation, dude. We kill Ryuu or Joubert kills me and you. Won't let that happen." _

_They both knew that running from the Old Man equaled suicide. With his kind of influence and far reaching contacts they'd have to go into hiding forever, always with the danger that one day Joubert would nevertheless stand in the living-room with a drawn gun._

_Junior nodded, then took a deep breath and got up. "Let's get cleaned up first. __We owe him that much."_

… … …

_It was past noon when they eventually went up to the small meditation room where Ryuu liked to spend time after lunch. _

_He was sitting cross-legged on a mat on the floor when they came in. _

_"You've taken your time", he said, slowly nodding. "Thank you."_


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: WARNING! THIS CHAPTER IS RATHER DARK! I TRIED TO KEEP IT AS LITTLE GRAPHIC AS POSSIBLE, BUT IT IS OF EMOTIONALLY HEAVY CONTENT. SKIP TO THE NON-ITALIC PART IF THAT KIND OF THING TENDS TO HAUNT YOU.**_

_At the Temple Junior had been introduced to the concept of_ mantra – _and had found it incredibly boring. Repeating the same sound, word or phrase over and over again, what use would that have? How would that do any good? Along with the meditation lessons, mantra practice had been his least favorite activity at the Temple. _

_But now, standing in this small room getting ready to kill Master Ryuu, a man Junior had not only come to like, but actually to respect and maybe even admire, he discovered that a mantra was the only thing keeping him from screaming and crying in utter despair. _

_THIS IS OUR JOB_

_HIS FATE IS SEALED – SOMEBODY _WILL_ FINISH THIS_

_HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS _

_He quietly repeated the words in his mind over and over again. Even Ryuu's strange statement "You've taken your time. Thank you." didn't interrupt this endless circle that somehow kept him focused and calm. But then the Master shifted and they could see that he had placed a dagger with an intricate ivory hilt right by his side. _

_Oh no. Had he somehow seen it coming? Was he going to fight back? _

_The mantra became nothing but a jumble of words. The only thing keeping Junior's composure together now was Guerrero, standing completely still by his side, taking in the scene with eerie calmness. _

_"You don't have to do this", he finally said. "I can end this quickly for you." _

_Ryuu merely shook his head. "You two will have to carry enough in the years to come. I'm not going to put this on you." _

_Junior wasn't sure he understood what the Master was talking about. Or maybe he didn't want to understand. He tried his mantra again - HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS and when that failed he tried to focus on how sadly amazing it was that Ryuu apparently had known all along who they were and why they had come to the Temple._

_"Then let me be your _kaishakunin_", Guerrero said quietly. _

_Junior's knowledge of the Japanese language was far from perfect, but he did recognize the Japanese word for "second". It didn't make any sense to him, though, till Guerrero kneeled down behind Ryuu and drew his own knife. _

_As a boy Junior had read everything about the ritual of _seppuku_, better known as _hara-kiri, _he could find. For a while the idea of highly trained samurai warriors with a unique code of honor and unmatched fighting skills had fascinated him deeply. Dreaming about going to Japan, finding one of the old masters, becoming a samurai himself had helped him getting through the harsh realities of his childhood, at least till he had turned a teenager and things had gone from bad to worse._

_Who would have thought that years after those wild boyhood dreams had faded he'd finally witness what had had such a dark appeal on him once upon a time? Seeing the Master sitting there, knife by his side, Guerrero behind him, ready to strike and remembering that there had been a period in his life when he had found that kind of death glorious, made Junior sick to his stomach. _

_HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS HE DID KILL ALL THOSE KIDS_

_Ryuu opened his robe, took his dagger and plunged it into his abdomen, leaving a deep left-to-right cut. Almost immediately afterwards Guerrero cut his throat. The whole thing was over in seconds. _

_Guerrero held the Master by his shoulders till he was sure he was dead, then slowly lowered him to the ground. Face grave, as if his features were etched in granite, he slowly wiped his knife clean. When he reached for Ryuu's right hand, however, Junior stopped him. _

_"No. I'm going to do that." _

_Mrs. Watson had insisted on an incontrovertible proof of the doctor's death. She would have probably preferred his head in a basket, but Joubert had explained to her that because of customs and all a finger, cut off post mortem, would have to do. She had asked for the doctor's right ring finger because that one bore a small liver spot. _

_Showing neither relief nor protest Guerrero stepped back from the body. He briefly closed his eyes when Junior executed the cut, though. _

… … …

_They managed to leave the Temple before anyone missed the Master. Now that they knew where they were finding the way to the nearest settlement with a connection to the road network didn't pose too much of a problem, but they somehow silently agreed to take the longer route. _

_For three days they marched through the jungle, lived off the plants Ryuu had taught them were edible and meditated. No words were spoken between them, they just walked and ate and rested, the only sounds coming from the rainforest and its inhabitants. When it rained, it rained, and when the sun shone, it shone. _

_On the morning of the fourth day they reached another logging town, a couple of corrugated-iron shacks scattered along a dusty red road. Packs of dogs were resting in the long shadows of battered vehicles and heaps of debris._

_They still hadn't exchanged a single word since they had left the Temple, but when Junior stopped at a shabby hut near the end of the town, Guerrero stopped, too. _

_Junior banged against the door till the hung-over shop owner opened it. Convincing him to start working despite the unholy hour didn't pose much of a problem. Junior offered his knife in exchange and the man recognized high quality work. Then he asked, in a rough mixture of English and Indonesian, what he wanted to have done. _

_To that, interestingly, Junior had no answer. The whole idea of stopping at this shop, waking the owner etc. had been a somewhat spontaneous act. He was surprised Guerrero was still with him, he had expected him to keep on walking, dismissing what Junior was planning as silly, sentimental and completely ridiculous. _

_Guerrero, however, asked the owner in broken Indonesian for a piece of paper and a pen. To Junior's complete amazement he sat down and drew a perfect copy of Master Ryuu's dragon tattoo, from head to tail, intricate pattern after intricate pattern. What amazed Junior even more, though, was the fact that Guerrero instructed the tattoo artist to put the same image on his arm, only inverted. _

_They spent all day in the stuffy, overheated hut and when they finally walked out it was somehow absolutely clear to them that they'd never ever talk about this. Talking was not necessary. _

"Chance? Chance? CHANCE!" Ames' voice made Carmine jump off the sofa, his big paws hitting sleeping Chance right in the stomach, providing him with a rather rude awakening from what had been a rather long, intense dream.

Drowsy and disoriented, he sat up and buried his face in his hands, trying to chase the remnants of this strange walk down memory lane away.

_Ryuu… _

He absentmindedly stroked his upper arm.

"Dude! Come down here! You'll want to see this!"

"Another copy of your dragon tattoo showed up!" Ilsa's voice. "This time painted on the tip of the pyramid of Cheops! What in the world is this about?"

_Good question_, Chance thought as he came padding downstairs. From the look on Guerrero's face he could see he had no idea either.


	15. tyrannosaurus rex

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ tyrannosaurus rex ~**_

Aside from the rather disturbing fact that yet another dragon had shown up, this time painted on the back of a rare white rhinoceros in London Zoo, the newspaper also contained one more pretty unsettling article.

LEADING SHAREHOLDER OF MAJOR CHEMICAL COMPANY DIES OF HEART ATTACK AT 42

_Liam Kenworthy, active public figure, rising politician and successful businessman unexpectedly passed away after suffering a sudden heart attack during a charity event in Boston last Friday. Despite immediate attempts at resuscitation Kenworthy was pronounced dead upon arrival at Boston Central Hospital. Kenworthy significantly contributed to the development and promotion of US-American chemistry science. His visionary style of leadership made Attenborough Chemical one of the leading chemical companies in the country. Only half an hour prior to his untimely death Kenworthy had delivered a speech announcing significant changes in the company's business philosophy towards a "more ethical" direction. Unfortunately he did not give any details on said change in philosophy, but his son and successor, Edward Kenworthy, stressed that to honor his father's last will they would finance two more scholarships for underprivileged children. _

Chance lowered his newspaper and looked at Guerrero, refilling his bowl with another load of Winston's cereals.

"…which definitely comes them cheaper than properly recycling all that toxic waste that they're shipping off to some third world country where it can rot in peace and poison the groundwater, which is what old man Kenworthy probably had in mind", Guerrero commented.

"Sudden heart attack … Boston… Joubert said he'd be on a business trip this week… the MO would match…" Chance frowned. This wasn't the first time he was suspecting the Old Man was fully back in business. He just wasn't sure what to do… dig around, find out if it was true? With what consequences? Ash was very attached to his "grandfather"…

Speaking of…. Barely audible footsteps on the stairs leading down to the lobby…

"Ash? You going somewhere?", Chance called his son.

"Just to the presidio...couple of hours... left you a note", came the rather hasty reply from the lobby. "Mom will pick me up downstairs… she'll drive me."

"Come in here, will you?" His son not entering the kitchen to scavenge something to eat – highly suspicious.

"Thought you were still sleeping… you came home late last night…" Ash hovered on the doorstep, hesitated, finally stepped in but remained near the entrance.

Chance and Guerrero exchanged quick glances, grinning. Yeah, sure…

"Who is she?", Chance asked.

Ash was shocked. "How…?" He scrambled to appear totally clueless at what the two men were talking about.

At that very moment, Ames walked in, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and flopped down on a chair next to Chance: "Hey, going on a date?"

"I don't know what in the world…" The poor boy was gasping from indignation like a fish out of water.

"Going out today?" Carrying a stack of paperwork upon entering, Ilsa made a beeline for the coffee machine.

Ash could only stare at her, open-mouthed.

Just then Winston arrived, making the team complete and of course, putting his two pence in, too. "Looks like someone's going on a date."

Speechless, Ash made a flabbergasted questioning gesture with his hands.

"You've used aftershave", Guerrero said.

"You're wearing your brand new jeans", Chance told him.

"You're up early on a Sunday", Ames pointed out.

"Your shirt" – Ilsa. "You've done something with your hair" – Winston.

Ash sighed in utter despair. Seriously, you just couldn't win against this family.

"It's not a date. It's just a falconry demonstration I'm going to with a friend… acquaintance… buddy… she's really not…"

_"Yeah"_, came the unison reply in various shades of sarcasm. _"Doesn't sound like a date at all. You're totally right…" _

"You're unbelievable! All of you!" Fuming, Ash stomped out the kitchen door. Thank God the alert system just then signaled the arrival of his mother.

"Don't you wanna bring her flowers?", Chance called after his son.

"She's not the flower type!", Ash yelled back.

"Dude, all chicks are the flower type!"

"AND IT'S NOT A DATE ANYWAY!" Ash fled into the elevator.

… … …

Down in the street Philippa smiled proudly as her son came into view, all dressed up and, she could tell from the way he walked and held his head, slightly nervous. He was going to be a very handsome man one day. Hard to believe he was already fifteen. Jeez, in a few months he'd drive himself…

"Shall I stop at a florist's on the way?", she asked him as he flopped down in the passenger's seat.

"Mom! Not you, too! It's NOT a date!"

"Your aftershave, your jeans, your shirt, your hair…", Philippa listed.

Ash groaned. "I don't know how Helen sees our… meeting… if I treat it as a date and she just sees it as hanging out together…"

Philippa couldn't help but smile again, a little more sentimental this time – oh the pains of growing up…

Helen was already waiting for him when Ash arrived at the meeting point. Philippa just dropped him off, nodded at the girl and then quickly left again, knowing well that nothing disturbed a date more than the presence of a mum.

"What, no flowers?", Helen greeted him. "What kind of a date is that?"

The look on Ash's face was completely crestfallen. Helen started laughing. "Hey, I was just pulling your leg, I…" She frowned.

"What?" Ash was really on edge by now. This, yeah, well, date, had cost him more sleepless nights than back when he hadn't been able to remember whether he had invited Sally or Kelly to the dance at the ice-rink… "What have I done now?"

"It's nothing…" Helen turned her gaze back to him. "For a short moment… it felt like somebody was watching us. But I'm just paranoid. It was a passing shadow, nothing more. Come on, I want to see the falcons!" She took his hand and dragged him away.

Ash felt his hand in her hand and finally relaxed a little. The sun was shining brightly, a fresh breeze was coming in from the sea… it looked like it was going to be a wonderful day.

In the shadow of a huge tree the young man Innokentij had assigned to keep an eye on Ash relaxed, too. Almost spotted by a fifteen year old… Damn that girl had good instincts! He better not tell his boss about this incident…

Innokentij, however, who liked to keep an eye on his employees and had access to the video feed of all surveillance cams in San Francisco, already knew.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"All in all it's sixteen, bro. Sixteen sightings of the dragon, all over the world and always on spectacular spots that are difficult to reach and bound to raise attention… the jet of Ilsa's friend was pretty much the least sensational." Guerrero took a deep bite from the apple he had scavenged from the fruit basket on Winston's desk.

"Maybe someone wants to reach you two very badly?", Winston ventured, eyeing the apple in Guerrero's hand. It looked suspiciously familiar.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. It was late afternoon and they had spent the day doing research on the dragon issue.

Chance shook his head. "The tattoo isn't simply a downloadable icon from the internet and it's not in any book I know of. To replicate it that exactly, someone must have seen it up close and studied it… a person that familiar with one of us would know other ways to get in contact."

"What astonishes me most is the enormous publicity of these acts… the perpetrator seems to be attracting it on purpose…", Ilsa mused. "Whoever does this apparently _wants _attention from the media… usually our clients prefer strict confidentiality and secrecy…"

"I really don't see why this is done…" Ames was just as puzzled as the rest of them. "I mean, seriously, the risk of getting caught is enormous… why do it? What's the gain?"

"Maybe…." Guerrero took another bite from the apple.

Winston suddenly realized where he had seen it before and harrumphed indignantly. Guerrero, however, ignored him.

"What if this has nothing to do with us? There is one other place where the painter could have seen the dragon, dude…" Guerrero let the sentence trail off and looked Chance in the eyes.

_Shall we tell them?_ The question hung in the air unspoken.

Just then the alert system let them know that Ash was back from his not-date at the Presidio. The ding of the elevator, however, was followed by two sets of footsteps in the lobby… a moment later Philippa entered the kitchen, Ash in tow, but he hovered, just like he had in the morning, near the doorstep. Maybe it was because again the whole team was gathered in the kitchen and he feared another round of nosy questions, but he somehow made an agitated, on edge impression.

"I'd really like to take a shower", he mumbled and disappeared through the doorway again before anyone could ask anything.

"Judging from his look it'll be a pretty cold shower", Guerrero commented, slight grin on his face.

"Yeah, I've got the feeling they didn't just watch birds…", Philippa agreed, sighing.

"Maybe you should talk to him, bro…"

"I already had the birds-and-the-bees-talk with him – we even did the banana thing!", Chance protested immediately.

"Dude, I think your boy is about to progress from theory to practice…that requires a different kind of talk."

"He's only fifteen! It's way too early to get concerned yet."

"When was _your_ first time?", Ames asked pointedly, already knowing the answer.

Chance hesitated, then: "…fifteen…"

"It _is_ time to get concerned", Philippa decided.

… … …

Upstairs in Chance's bathroom, Ash indeed was letting the cold water run freely. His mind was reeling. It had started out as a simple first-date-mom-is-coming-in-ten-minutes- kiss... but when their lips had touched it had felt as if some sort of spark had ignited between them. Knowing full well that he wasn't supposed to do that on a first date, he had used his tongue… she had opened her mouth and let him in... jeez!

Ash reduced the hot water part of the shower even more. He had tongue kissed before, but that... And then, suddenly, Helen had pulled away. He had expected a resounding slap in the face, but instead… she had gently touched it, brushed her thumb against his cheekbones… and kissed him again…

He had barely managed to keep his hands to himself, not wanting to test his luck any further by breaking another first date rule. But now… he had never ever longed to touch a girl as much as he was longing to touch Helen right now. Oh heavens, what kind of a feeling was that?

… … …

When he finally came downstairs again, however, the raging storm of emotions inside of him was quickly replaced by the more imminent sensation of panic – they were all still sitting in the kitchen and apparently planning to eat together. Oh no… They would surely…

"So, why don't you tell us about your day? How was the falconry show?", just then his dad asked.

Ash cringed inwardly. _There we go_, he thought resignedly.

"Helen was chosen to feed one of the eagles. She was a bit upset… thought the falconer had only picked her because she's got a crutch… she hates special treatment because of her handicap." Ash paused and broke into a smile. "Told her he did it because she looked like the only one capable to stomach touching dead chicklets."

"She's pretty tough", Guerrero remarked, nodding appreciatively.

"Yeah, that accident that ruined her leg must have been bad… and her mother died early. I don't think her aunt likes her much. Better than foster care, though, I guess…"

Guerrero knew a little more about the "accident" that had permanently damaged Helen's leg, and he also knew some details regarding her mother's death… but this was something, he decided, that was for Helen to tell Ash, when she felt the time was right.

"Maybe she could stop by for dinner one day…" Philippa suggested innocently.

Ash couldn't have looked more shocked if she had told him she'd be a nice girl to marry.

"Awww, that would be nice! We could have a cookout and get to know her better!", Ames chimed in.

"You mean here? You want to invite her to dinner _here_?" Just when Ash had thought things couldn't get any worse.

"But this is forbidden territory, nobody is allowed here!"

"Well, Isamu is allowed here", Winston pointed out. "And she seems to be very special. Kept Christina in check during the whole ice-skating issue."

"An exception to the rule", Ilsa confirmed.

Ash opened his mouth and closed it again. He knew his folks – this was no random idea, they were serious about this. He needed to somehow ward this off, but how…?

His father's cell phone rang. Chance checked the number on the display, recognized it with one glance and immediately took the call while Ash heaved a sigh of relief. Saved by the bell, literally.

"Harry! What…? Calm down… Harry, I want you to calm down…" Chance frowned. "What? You did WHAT?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Harry, this is not Night at the Museum. He _cannot_ have walked out of here." Winston was obviously fighting to keep his composure.

"But the footprints!"

"Why don't you start at the beginning? Tell us what happened, step by step", Chance said, very calmly, very friendly. Had Ames been present, she would have called it his "Harry-Tone". He usually didn't speak like that.

"I was hired by the acting director of this museum to make sure all exhibits of the new wing were well-protected till the grand opening on Monday." In finishing his sentence, Harry made a sound like a whistling teapot with asthma. Even Ilsa with her British boarding school countenance made a face.

"Harry, what are you doing?", Winston asked, overly slowly and very pronouncedly, like he always spoke when his patience was stretched to the limit.

"Pranayama - the art of yoga breathing control – learned it at the farm last time Nelly and I were visiting."

"One more time, dude, and _I_'ll control your breathing. Permanently."

The look on Chance's face told Harry to take Guerrero's threat seriously and continue, fast.

"They had workers setting up the exhibition till this morning under the regular guards' watch, no need for me to be present", Harry quickly explained. "I came in around ten am, when the cleaning crew was just leaving. It was looking like a true piece of cake job, Chance. All I had to do was watch the exhibits for twenty-four hours. I thought nothing could go wrong!"

"When, Harry, will you finally learn that "nothing can go wrong" and "you" are mutually exclusive factors?" Winston was still exasperated. This was such a typical Harry case!

He decided not to dwell on the fact that with Chance, things usually didn't go completely according to plan either – _"there's a camera on the roof…" – "EXCUSE ME?"_

Ilsa, however, shot Winston an angry look and reached out to squeeze Harry's hand. "I am absolutely confident that we are going to figure this out, Harry." The poor man looked terribly crestfallen.

"What happened after you arrived?", Chance asked, still in his very special tone of voice.

"After I did my first round I sat down to watch the monitors. I really can't explain it, this is totally against my attitude to work, I'm a total pro, you know that, but… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up…" Harry made a helpless gesture towards the patch of lawn outside the window where Ames had just finished covering up a couple of spots with the help of a rake. She looked up, saw Harry gesturing at her and came back in.

"I still can't believe it's gone…" Harry turned away from the window and looked at the deserted spot where the museum's newly acquired tyrannosaurus rex skeleton had been on display. His shoulders sagged. Now even Winston felt sorry for him.

"The prints are about three yards apart", Ames said, coming in. "Deeper in the claw region, as if the balls of the feet were used for pushing off at a brisk gait…"

"So it really walked out?" Harry's voice made that wheezing sound again.

"Dude", Guerrero chimed in, seemingly not the slightest influenced by Harry's low spirits. "Someone is messing with you. Slipped you something. Left the fake dino prints to add insult to injury."

"Imagine what the press would make out of this – _"Private detective has tyrannosaurus rex skeleton stolen from underneath his nose. Footprints on the lawn point seawards."_ Chance frowned, deep in thought.

Harry, on the other hand, gasped in terror: "That would totally ruin my reputation!"

"…and help to divert attention from the theft itself", Guerrero added and began rummaging in his backpack. The fact that he didn't point out that there wasn't much to ruin regarding Harry's reputation was the only hint that he was not completely indifferent to Harry's fate. He was a friend of Chance's after all…

"We need to figure out what they slipped you, dude. Most chemical substances are retraceable… you just need to know your way around…" Guerrero produced the small black leather case he had been looking for and opened its zipper. With a barely stifled shriek Harry recognized its content.

"Look, what I'm going to tell you now might shock you, considering my track record – but I'm not constantly the tough SOB everyone thinks me to be…I really don't like needles!" His eyes were bulging with fear and his voice had climbed at least an octave higher.

"A blood sample is the best way to find out what they used, dude. And we need to do it fast, your body keeps processing it while we speak." Guerrero spoke neither overly slow and accentuated, like Chance, nor with extremely strained patience, like Winston. He also refrained from using the hiss he normally underlaid his voice with. All he was doing was laying out the facts. Still Winston couldn't really blame Harry for squirming in his chair – Guerrero and a set of needles _were _a scary sight.

"I want Ilsa to do it!"

Jeez.

Trust Harry to make the most idiot decision possible in any given situation.

Everybody cringed, even Ilsa herself, who hated nothing more than using a needle on someone. Guerrero had tried to teach her giving injections and stitching skin. He had used the classic method with fruit skin replacing human skin. Half a dozen mauled oranges later, he had gently taken the needle from her hand, carefully placed it out of her reach and then told her in no uncertain terms that unless she was the only other person in a ten mile radius, she was NEVER EVER to use a needle on him.

Chance wondered if they should simply end all discussion by throwing Harry to the ground and restraining him. The clock was ticking against them here and they were wasting precious time.

Ilsa, however, was already one step ahead of him. She gently reached out and took Harry's hand again. "I promise he won't hurt you." Her voice was soft and comforting, but with enough authority to make clear she'd be able to keep that promise. Ames couldn't help but think that Ilsa would have been a good mother.

Harry lowered his head in defeat and nodded. "But do it quickly, will you?"

Wordlessly Guerrero put on rubber gloves, rolled up Harry's sleeve and placed a tourniquet above his elbow. He chose a vein and rubbed the area with alcohol. All that time Ilsa was holding his hand.

"Ah, gosh, I must have pulled a muscle using that rake!", Ames exclaimed just then. "Could you check if there's any sore spot?", she asked Chance, lifting her shirt so that her except for the bra bare back became visible – in full view of Harry's.

Guerrero inserted the needle into the vein.

Not the faintest sound of pain.

As he suavely withdraw the needle without Harry even noticing, Ilsa felt the urge to kiss him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

A lapse.

A tiny little mistake.

A really small step out of line.

People are bound to go astray every now and then, aren't they?

Gilbert the laboratory technician saw it as a really unfair twist of fate that his, compared to those of other's, very minor misdemeanors had earned him a permanent relationship with a psychopath named Guerrero.

In a moment of weakness that had lasted about six months he had used his employer's facilities to cook meth – seriously, no big deal. Peanuts, compared to what drug labs in South America or Russia were producing, not to mention Korea!

But he, Gilbert Sullivan, harmless, by and large law abiding citizen, had had the misfortune of falling into the hands of that predator.

Granted, that kid's death due to a slightly contaminated batch shouldn't have happened, but that had been an accident and he was genuinely sorry for the boy's untimely demise. Although, on the other hand, it was a good thing his parents had decided to switch off the machines. After three months in vigil coma there really had been no perspective, neither for the parents nor for that kid.

Who could have known that the parents would hire someone to figure out who had done this to their son?

And anyway, it wasn't that he had forced the boy to slam that meth, was it? Unfortunately that explanation had fallen on pretty deaf ears with them. They (Gilbert was still amazed at how vindictive seemingly normal people could get) had wanted Guerrero to do to him what he – in their warped perspective – had done to their son.

Guerrero, however, had betrayed the parents, proving how truly amoral he was. He had put Gilbert in vigil coma for a week, with drugs that kept him just below being able to communicate. He could hear everything that was said in the room, could feel every needle that was put into him, but could not even move his eyeballs in a coordinated way.

Aside from the horrible boredom that bastard had sentenced him to, there was the constant fear that he'd just let him lie, would stop caring for him, out of malice or because something had happened to him. What if Guerrero had had an accident? He had been totally helpless, for heaven's sake! And that rat had always varied the times in which he stopped by to check on his prisoner, so that Gilbert had been constantly on edge, worried that Guerrero would one day not come back.

After a week, though, Guerrero had informed him that he would release and revive him if he left the city and the state forever. Gilbert happily agreed, of course, with a pronounced closing and opening of his eyelids, only to find out that leaving city and state did not equal to leaving Guerrero behind.

Gilbert found out the very hard way that the beast somehow managed to watch his every step. And whenever he needed some sort of laboratory testing to be done, he gave him a call, and he better answered it… like today for example…

… … …

"Concentrate, Harry. Is there anyone in particular that you pissed off lately? Anyone who'd love to get rid of you for good?"

"Might be quite a long list, dude", Guerrero told Winston from his position in the back of the room.

Winston retrieved his notepad from his pocket to jot down any names that would come up. "Shut up, will you? This is classical police methodology."

"Just saying you might need extra paper."

In the background Guerrero busied himself with the museum's computer. Ilsa was on the phone with Connie, discussing some foundation-related stuff. Apparently Connie wanted her to go on some sort of mini trip to South America as a representative of a project that was supposed to facilitate the resocialization of female delinquents after they had served their sentence. Chance had found a diorama showing hunters with a slain wooly mammoth and was dozing on the animal's comfy fur while Ames was sitting next to Guerrero, going through lists he was printing out for her.

"You make it sound as if I was constantly annoying someone…", Harry said with a hurt expression on his face.

Winston touched his nose with his index finger.

"The list, dude", Guerrero growled.

"I honestly can't think of anyone… okay maybe this client I had last week… though the hole in his Persian carpet really wasn't my fault… neither was the broken fish tank… I have to say, for such thick glass, it cracked surprisingly easily… I did save all the fish! Not a single one perished in the fire…"

Winston jotted down the name.

"Then there was this other client who accused me of having led his stalker to his secret hideout… Seriously, I'm a professional, I know how to shake any tails off. He must have found that shack in the woods by coincidence."

Winston jotted down that name, too.

"The landlord of the building where I keep my office is not entirely happy with me either ever since these thugs knocked down the front door and tried to get to me in my panic room by blowing a hole in the wall… by the way, thanks for responding so fast, Chance…"

A hand making a "no big deal"-gesture emerged from the mammoth's fur while Winston wrote down another name.

"Oh, and maybe…."

Winston put down his pen. "Harry, if I got this right we're talking about a time span of seven days – three mightily annoyed people in seven days? Are you aiming for an entry in the Guinness Book of Records or something?"

"Told you it'd be a long list, dude…"

"Any better ideas, wiseass?"

"What about Timothy Thornthrope, chief curator of this museum?" Judging from Guerrero's tone this was not simply a wild guess.

"But Timothy hired me!", Harry interjected.

"Ever wondered why, dude? Thornthrope's got a very unhealthy gambling habit and an even more unhealthy habit of borrowing money from the wrong people…"

"Yeah", came Chance's voice muffled from the wooly mammoth's fur, "but what do you do with a stolen t-rex?"

Good question…

Just then Guerrero's cell phone signaled. Gilbert had the test results.

"I think I know what you could do with a stolen t-rex…", he murmured, already typing into the computer again.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

What do you do with a stolen t-rex skeleton?

Guerrero's guy had an answer, or, more accurately, the results he provided gave them a very good clue. The sleep-inducing drug that Thornthrope had dosed Harry with had been no ordinary street drug. Gilbert hadn't been able to find out if there was an established name for it, but its components definitely pointed in the direction of traditional Chinese medicine, enhanced by 21st century methods.

China Town was full of apothecaries with varying business philosophies. Some were outright tourist traps, others strictly followed the principles laid down in the 黄帝内经, the _Yellow Emperor's Inner Canon, _a medical text dating back to 475 BC. A third group catered to a heterogeneous clientele and offered traditional remedies just as well as stuff that was perceived as traditionally Asian although it was of a much more recent date. The New Age wave and several Hollywood movies had created a certain image of Chinese medicine and those businesses were happy to comply with it.

Only one apothecary in all of Chinatown, however, actually combined old methods and new ways to create very special products – extremely potent sleep-inducing drugs for example. And they surely had good use for a t-rex skeleton, now that everyone had gotten so conscious about endangered species on the Red List. The market for rhino powder had practically broken down. Well, dinosaurs already had perished – no need for a bad conscience there.

The Zhang Zhongjing Apothecary on Grant Avenue occupied the complete building, five floors. Most tourists, however, ignored the premises – not enough Chinese flair about it. Some speculated the single stylized black dragon statue in the shop window emitted some sort of dark energy that kept camera-carrying, Bermuda shorts wearing, buying nothing flocks of European pensioners away. Whether that rumor was true or not, fact was the people who frequented that apothecary took Chinese medicine very seriously and were willing to pay high prices.

There was also the rumor that pickpockets who dared to cross the Apothecary's threshold with mischief in mind soon after had to deal with strange allergies, all sorts of accidents and in general really bad luck such as breaking into the Chief of Police's house while he was playing poker with his best inspectors.

Business-wise, acquiring a t-rex skeleton with its about five tons of bone material, made a lot of sense. Sold in grams, for a high three digit figure, a pulverized skeleton promised to be a cash machine for years to come.

The Apothecary building on Grant Avenue had a depot accommodated on the top floor – most likely the thieves had transported the skeleton there. So an ambush it would be…

An ambush with Harry.

… … …

"I see why we can't dose him again, too much of a risk since we don't know how the substances interact", Winston stated. "But tying him up somewhere? Or locking him in? We could order him pizza and drinks, feed him some bullshit story… with a little luck he wouldn't even notice… "

"You've got my full support, dude", Guerrero said, munching on a banana.

Chance, however, shook his head. "It's his reputation that's on the line. And he's well aware of that. We can't shut him out of this."

"Yeah, but his reputation would be safer if we did…" Winston rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

"Chance is right, shutting him out would hurt his feelings. He's already heartbroken that Thornthrope managed to snow him so easily. We need to build up his self-esteem." Ames checked her equipment. She'd climb up the building first to manipulate the alert system.

"To _hurt _Harry's self-esteem, Ames, you'd need a tank", Winston groaned. "I've never met anyone with less self-doubts."

"He _seems _to be quite self-assured, yes, but have you ever wondered if there might be another side of Harry? One he deliberately hides?"

"You've been watching late night re-runs of Dr. Phil again, dude?"

Ames puffed herself up and was just about to give Guerrero some sophisticated, scientifically supported reply regarding the inner emotional stability displayed by a person in contrast to his or her outer appearance (they'd done a special broadcast on that topic), when Harry appeared in the doorway.

He was wearing a camouflage outfit. Complete with black combat boots, huge combat knife, tight-fitting dark green tank top, head band and face paint.

"You wanna rephrase your statement?", Winston asked Ames.

Guerrero threw Chance a "seriously?"-look. Chance shrugged his shoulder in his trademark "what can I say? He's a friend" gesture. Sighing, Guerrero turned his attention to Harry. "Dude", he said, very slowly, very composed, sounding a bit like Winston. "The dinosaur is already dead. We don't need to make it suffocate from laughter. And lose that knife."

"Why? Too cruel an approach? Doesn't match the Marshall Pucci Foundation's standards?"

"Maim yourself at home, dude, where we don't have to file a report about it."

As if on cue, Ilsa came walking in. She saw Harry, she saw Harry's outfit, she saw the knife – "You've been through a lot lately, Harry, why don't you stay in the van with me and Winston?"

But predictably, Harry didn't want to hear a thing about it. He was insistent – he would not let them face all this danger for him while he was sitting safe and dry in the van.

So they devised a really good plan to protect Harry and prevent the t-rex from being turned into powder at the same time.

Ames, Guerrero and Chance launched the initial attack through the depot's windows, threw a couple of flash bangs to dazzle whoever was present and basically got the situation under control before Harry came in through the freight elevator as "back up".

Great plan!

Seriously, who could have taken into consideration that Harry, stepping out of the elevator, would trip, stumble against a huge stack of boxes with luo han kuo, sent the fruits rolling all over the place and himself crashing right into a giant stylized black dragon statue on a pedestal, a bigger version of the one they kept downstairs in the shop window?

It shattered into a thousand pieces.

The heavily armed guards and the apothecary people that had just set everything up to pulverize the t-rex immediately gave up all resistance. Apparently the dragon had been some kind of patron for the apothecary's owner, according to them the statue possessed supernatural energy and its destruction would bring great harm on the person responsible for it. They were afraid of being in one room with Harry, completely scared that his fate might affect them and readily agreed to help bringing the t-rex bones back to the museum – if only they could get away from Harry.

"See how easy this is going? Where would you be now without me backing you up?", Harry asked Winston on their way back to the museum.

Guerrero put a calming hand on Winston's shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Timothy Thornthrope told himself that there was no reason at all to be concerned. Really, he was being paranoid, that was all. There was a lot on the line, most importantly his personal health. Those people he unfortunately owed money to had a habit of venting their displeasure with a rather hands-on approach. Can you say "broken ribs"? So, perfectly understandable psychological reaction to be a little nervous.

It _was_ a bit strange that this private eye he had hired to keep the exhibition safe hadn't called and reported the theft of the skeleton yet. Well, he had given him a rather generous amount of that sleep-inducing drug he had gotten from the apothecary people, just to be on the safe side. Maybe he was still snoring away happily. Would be great, in that case he could make photos of that sleeping idiot, the insurance company would pay the museum quickly and then sue the private detective's ass into bankruptcy while he, Thornthrope, would finally be able to pay off his debtors with the money from the Chinese apothecary.

It was a perfect plan and from everything he had heard about that PE, there was nothing that could go wrong in its execution. That man was so incredibly naïve, so totally incompetent at realizing what was going on, so completely convinced of his supreme investigatory skills… Timothy had dug around a bit, word on the street was if you want a fall guy, hire Harry.

Aside from that the apothecary people had already sent him a message a couple of hours ago, they had disassembled and retrieved the t-rex without problems, the PI sound asleep in the next room. Transporting the boxes with the bones to their office building on Grant Avenue had gone down uneventfully, too. Okay, the fact that he couldn't reach them now to set up a meeting point for the money delivery was a tiny bit unsettling, but there could be a million reasons for this.

Preparing himself to react totally shocked at the sight of the t-rex' empty pedestal, Thornthrope parked his Corvette in his personal parking bay, got out, crossed the short distance to the museum's side entrance – and was stopped by a beautiful woman with a very distinctive British accent.

"Mr. Thornthrope! Exactly the man I wanted to talk to! I've been trying to get hold of you all day long, what a pleasure finally finding you!"

When a world-famous billionaire and philanthropist such as Ilsa Pucci comes running to shake your hand you don't question why in the world her number didn't show up on your cell phone or how odd it is that she decided to seek you out at your workplace on a Sunday afternoon. You simply take her hand and start talking nice-nice so that she eventually will whip out her check book and finance your next exhibition, or, maybe, if you're really lucky…

"I was thinking about offering you a job, Mr. Thornthrope", Ilsa said, all smiles and enthusiasm. "My late husband and I spent years accumulating a beautiful collection of prehistoric items that I'd now love to share with the public, in Marshall's honor. I need a more than capable curator for this task and according to my sources, Mr. Thornthrope, you're the best."

From an objective point of view, so much praise from someone you've never met before, under such strange circumstances… very suspicious. But praise has this inherent effect to kind of numb people's common sense. People _want_ to believe that they really are as great as they are told. So no, Ilsa's words didn't make any red flags go up with Mr. Thornthrope.

"I think we should discuss the details at dinner. You couldn't possibly make room on your surely tightly filled schedule for me right now? Unfortunately I'll be leaving for England tomorrow morning and…"

Of course Timothy could make room for Mrs. Ilsa Pucci.

… … …

Inside the museum things were going a little less smoothly.

"Harry, I'm absolutely sure this was not the first time something mechanical exploded on you. Remember the time you blew up Winston's electric pencil sharpener?", Ames said soothingly, wiping traces of coffee from Harry's clothes. "Or when you got caught up in the office's electric window blinds and Chance had to cut you out? The museum's coffee machine was probably already very old."

"It was not the curse, dude!", Guerrero shouted from the other side of the room, his voice making it very clear that he was not willing to put up with this nonsense much longer.

The apothecary people apparently disagreed with him. Against the promise that Harry would stay away from them they worked very fast and very effectively on the reconstruction of the t-rex. Winston, with his eye for details, kept walking round and round the skeleton, comparing its current state with the insurance company's drawings that documented its original state. Guerrero, with his talent for creative mischief, was assigned with the correct execution of the second part of the plan. Chance, having already done his part by leading the ambush against the apothecary, had stretched out on the wooly mammoth's fur again.

"I'll never be able to do my job again!" Harry threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of total desperation. "You know, I'm the most rational guy in the world, not a whiff of superstition on me – the fact that I'm wearing not matching socks has practical reasons, that rabbit's foot on my key chain was a gift from a friend and it has been statistically proven that walking under a ladder enhances your risk of getting hit by something falling off it. So, you see, really, not superstitious at all. But these Chinese curses, they are different…"

Crestfallen, Harry sat down on a pedestal that carried a life-size Velociraptor model. He sat down rather heavily, the model lost balance, pitched forward and its plastic teeth cut deep into Harry's shirt.

"NOT THE CURSE, HARRY!", Winston and Guerrero shouted unison.

"We've got to help him somehow", Ames, sitting down by Chance's side, murmured. "He's totally over-interpreting his usual clumsiness."

"You do watch Dr. Phil a lot", Chance remarked, grinning.

She swatted his shoulder. "You've got a better idea?"

"Sure – the oldest solution in the world", he grinned.

"And that would be?"

"We tell his wife."


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Big thanks to pocketsevens for providing an important detail… and, as always, to my faithful beta reader and dear friend, niagaraweasel. **_

The grand opening of the new museum's wing was an important social event, although it was scheduled for a Monday morning. The museum's board of directors would have preferred to move the festivities to a date more suitable for the regular attendees – Monday morning was usually reserved for dates with hairdressers, manicurists and pedicurists, not dinosaurs – but the main sponsor had a tight schedule, all those charity events she had to grace with her presence… so it had had to be eleven o'clock on the first workday of the week for Mr. Jurassic Park.

The international expert audience that had been invited, too, didn't care at all about the unorthodox timing of the opening. They were way too excited to finally see the heart of the exhibition, the almost completely preserved t-rex skeleton that museums all over the world had tried to obtain. The origins of the skeleton were quite mysterious – ten years ago the bones had been discovered in a forgotten chamber of the remains of the Fuehrer's bunker in Berlin, meticulously packed for carriage overseas. Nobody knew where Hitler or one of his minions, Goering, most likely, had gotten the skeleton, but everybody was eager to see the "Nazisaur".

"This skeleton is an awe-inspiring reminder of the fact that there was a world before mankind", Timothy Thornthrope told the audience, doing a very good job of pretending that he was not completely shell-shocked. The skeleton, the goddamn t-rex skeleton, was standing exactly where he had last seen it, on a pedestal in the middle of the new wing. For heaven's sake, this was impossible!

According to that idiot detective there had been no problems at all on Sunday, a quiet day, nothing out of the ordinary. But the apothecary people had told him they had retrieved the skeleton from the museum and disassembled it! What the hell was going on? He hadn't been able to reach anyone at the apothecary ever since yesterday morning and now this! The skeleton! At the moment it was concealed with a huge white blanket, but he had checked, this was no trick by the detective, the t-rex really was underneath – in one piece.

"It belongs to the public and should be made available to as many people as possible, to serve as a reminder that we are only guests on this earth, visitors who should better behave well – or we'll be forced to leave one day, just like the dinosaurs", Timothy continued his speech. He had always been good with words and he could tell that the audience was with him; unfortunately his creditors weren't of the sympathetic ear sort.

"Forces of evil far too long kept this beautifully preserved witness of pre-human history from its rightful place in the middle of our society. From now on forever, this shall never happen again." Timothy punched the button that would trigger the automatic lifting of the white blanket. "Welcome to San Francisco!", he shouted out emphatically as the bones slowly came into view. The audience applauded.

The first few minutes afterwards everything seemed perfectly normal. The various sponsors wanted an up close and personal shot with "their" t-rex and the press in attendance was only too happy to oblige. Some of the female philanthropists clearly showed signs of recent visits to the beauty surgeon and what better background to a tediously restored lady of society with puffed up collagen lips, unnaturally pointed cheeks and a rather frozen Botox smile than a dinosaur?

Then it was the experts' turn to take a look.

From the corner of his eyes, while talking to the most important of their sponsors, the generous lady thanks to whom they had had to move the whole function to Monday morning, Timothy saw one of the professors point at the dinosaur's left foot. Another professor looked at the spot in question, frowned, bent over to get a better look, waved to a third colleague to join in… uh-oh, sudden clumping of dinosaur experts…

"Is there a problem?", Thornthrope asked, walking over to the growing group.

"Well, son, there actually is", a professor from Cambridge addressed him with a fatherly smile. "It seems you somehow mixed up the metatarsophalangeal joint of the middle toe with the tarsometatarsal joint of the smallest toe."

"And that's not all!", another expert chimed in. "Look at the tail! The caudal vertebrae are in the wrong order! Number six and number twenty-three should clearly switch places – the size alone makes it clear, not to mention the shape! How in the world could such a mistake happen under your watch?"

Very good question. And it became even harder to answer when a prehistoric dentistry expert discovered a couple more mistakes regarding the creature's teeth.

Oh good Lord, not only had the reemergence of the skeleton positioned him in a very tight spot with his creditors, it now also turned out to be his professional downfall in the world of prehistoric experts – the press was here, the journalists were eagerly scribbling down all flaws in the skeleton… no museum anywhere would ever hire him again!

Timothy seriously wondered if maybe he should save his creditors the trouble and take a dive into the Bay on his own.

"The Marshall Pucci Foundation is currently launching a history project in Outer Mongolia", just then a by now familiar voice whispered into his ear. "The evolution of the Mongolian marmot eagerly awaits exploration… we could use a good curator, willing to work for board and lodgings", Ilsa smiled at him.

At least Thornthrope knew when to give up. He accepted Ilsa's generous offer to arrange the necessary papers and pay for the flight.

They could have called the case a success at that point… but there was still Harry and the curse…

… … …

Nelly, Harry's wife, had had no trouble at all to come up with a solution for her husband's situation. There's no place like home and Nelly's home was a farm full of people who knew a lot more about things in heaven and earth than were generally dreamt of in anyone's philosophy. She told the people who were more family to her than blood ties could have ever provided about Harry's little problem and they, predictably, were only too happy to help him out.

"Shouldn't negative energy negate negative karma?", Moira asked, studying Harry through a giant magnifying class.

"Theoretically yes", Clarence nodded. "But in severe cases…" He tapped against Harry with a chicken bone.

Harry gulped at the word "severe".

"Nothing a well adjusted magnetic field can't cure!", the scientist called from the back of the room, already setting up his equipment.

"Luckily the constellations of Mars, Jupiter and Pluto are just right tonight." Chantrelle, painting large circles on the floor with sycamore syrup collected in a moonless night while a screech owl had been crying, interrupted her constant chanting of ancient Egyptian anti-curse incantations for a moment to glance out of the window.

"A good reading of some classic political literature – Marx, for example, or Lenin's early works, would free his head from all that curse nonsense", Nicole, the anarchist, grumbled from her seat.

"I really don't understand why we all have to wear clothes", Garcia remarked for about the tenth time. "If we all were a little more equal the curse wouldn't know which person to befall."

"Do you really think this'll work?", Harry asked his wife as Chantrelle powdered his hair with pulverized minerals.

"I grew up here, darling. Trust me, these people know what they're doing." Nelly put on a reassuring smile and helped Moira lighting candles.

After a thorough discussion of several hours they of course hadn't been able to come up with a solution that satisfied everyone, so they did what they always did when they couldn't reach an agreement: They decided to try all anti-curse strategies at once and with a little luck their combined energy would free Harry.

Guerrero brought popcorn and took a seat very close to the emergency exit of the farm's common room. The others followed his example.

Good idea.

The scientist's magnetic field blew the farm's main fuse.

One of Moira's candles set a piece of the floor on fire, but Chance extinguished it on time.

When Harry danced along the lines of the circles Chantrelle had drawn he lost balance and stepped into one of Clarence's chicken bones. One of its splinters cut Harry so badly, they had to take him to hospital… where they discovered while routinely checking his blood levels that he was very close to a hazardous magnesium and zinc undersupply, which would have resulted in severe damage to his intestines, hadn't they discovered it in the last minute.

"See", Nelly told her husband, "the curse is lifted. If not for the accident with the chicken bones, you'd be in intensive care right now." She squeezed his hand and watched him drifting off to sleep, smile on his lips.

Now they could call the case a success.

… … …

When they finally got back to the warehouse, someone had left a message for Guerrero.

"News about the dragons, bro", he said, riffling through the contents of the thick brown envelope his contact had delivered. "Police found out the dragon paintings were left by different persons. Footage from surveillance cams indicates different heights, on some occasions CSI was able to retrieve DNA samples, they don't match…"

"Anyone we know?" Chance held up leaflets from various pizza delivery services, gesturing for the team to decide on one.

"Yes, dude, one could say so."


	22. Zone A

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ Zone A ~**_

_I was born near the equator, where the northeast and southeast trade winds come together. What a beautiful area to come into the world. As I rose from the sea, I stretched myself from north to south, looked around a bit and then, natural traveler that I am, decided that I wanted to look for new horizons, just like my ancestors had done. So westward I went, like all tropical waves. _

_I don't like to rush things, so I crossed the Eastern Caribbean Sea very slowly, bringing cloudiness and thunderstorms to all those picturesque little islands. The Western Caribbean was so pretty, I decided to linger there for a couple of hours, gathering strength. Thunder and lightning are such wonderful playthings… _

_Near the Gulf of Mexico I found an extremely low wind shear and warm sea surface temperatures – what a gift! Vapor rose from the ocean as I passed, joined me on my way to the west, cooled down as it traveled upwards inside of me and finally turned into clouds so huge, beautiful and massive, I couldn't believe I was producing them myself. And what a feeling when they started swirling! _

_As I slowly moved towards Jamaica, I finally began developing an eye, so I could see for myself how strong I had grown ever since I had left my home. With my winds blowing at 99 mph, I headed towards Kingston. It's been a while since one of us visited here – twenty-four years ago Cousin Gilbert had been the last to say hallo. Time for a reencounter! _

_Oh how those roofs went flying in the eastern part of the island! Not to mention what a wonderful massage the crop fields gave me as I plunged into them on Haiti. Pity these plants are such fragile toys; they get destroyed so easily. _

_Landfall unfortunately reduced my wind velocity, but once I was on my way to Cuba I was compensated for that – my eye grew to 23 miles in diameter and I travelled at 135 mph. _

_When I hit solid ground once more a little west of Santiago de Cuba of course it slowed me down again, but nevertheless I made it from Cuba to the Bahamas in less than five hours. I couldn't get enough of watching the waves I was creating on the sea – twenty-nine feet! And a six foot storm surge! How funny to see all those cars floating around on the flooded streets. _

_I could have happily stayed there for a while, but something was drawing me away, in the direction of the east coast of the USA._

… … …

The NYC mayor's office has its own twitter account.

ZONE A INCLUDES BRIGHTON BEACH MANHATTAN BEACH CONEY ISLAND RED HOOK THE ROCKAWAYS HAMILTON BEACH ALL COASTAL AREAS IN STATEN ISLAND BATTERY PARK LOWER MANHATTAN, they wrote.

And a little later:

THE LAST SUBWAY TRAINS LEAVE IN 90 MINUTES. LEAVE ZONE A NOW.

Which was almost immediately followed by:

VISIT OUR WEBSITE TO SEE MAP OF ZONES

And in addition to that:

IF YOU CAN'T EVACUATE YOURSELF, CALL 555-300-555 FOR ASSISTANCE NOW

A very short time later a whole array of tweets came rolling in:

BRIDGES AND ROADS MIGHT CLOSE SOON. BE AWARE LAST SUBWAY IN 80 MINUTES

MANDATORY EVACUATION FOR ZONE A. LEAVE NOW

HUGH CAREY BROOKLYN BATTERY TUNNEL AND HOLLAND TUNNEL CLOSING AT TWO

SCHOOLS WILL BE CLOSED TILL TUESDAY

#SANDY IS DANGEROUS. LEAVE ZONE A IMMEDIATELY

PETS ARE WELCOME AT SHELTERS. FOR SHELTER NEAR YOU CALL 555-300-555

… … …

Meanwhile, in a moldy cellar underneath an office building in Lower Manhattan, the huddled figure of a womAn in ragged clothes slowly stirred.

Almost immediately her head started aching. It felt like a thunderstorm coming down in her cerebral cortex. No surprise after the heavy blow she had received. Her vision swam and suddenly her stomach seemed to roll over. Making harsh retching noises, she crawled a few inches towards one of the cellar's corners and then threw up violently.

Delicate fingers brushed strands of hair out of her face.

"You've got a concussion", a soft British-accented voice murmured soothingly. "It's best you lie down again."

"This", Connie Pucci hissed between two bad fits of gagging, "is all your fault, Ilsa. It's all your fault."

… … …

CONCENTRATE ON KEEPING YOURSELVES AND YOUR FAMILY SAFE, tweeted the mayor's office.

FLOODING AND POWER OUTAGES ARE ALMOST CERTAIN

A minute later, that message was followed by:

TIME WINDOW FOR EVACUATION IS CLOSING RAPIDLY

And:

ALL FOUR EAST RIVER BRIDGES WILL SHUT DOWN: BROOKLYN MANHATTAN WILLIAMSBURG ED KOCH QUEENSBORO BRIDGES

For two minutes nothing. Then:

TIME FOR EVACUATION IS OVER. WHEREVER YOU ARE, STAY THERE. DO NOT GO OUTSIDE. DO NOT TRY TO LEAVE.

… … …

"It's a HURRICANE, Guerrero, for heaven's sake! You can't threaten it, you can't blackmail it, you can't kill it! It's a goddamn force of nature and it is already hitting the city!" Winston was shouting at Guerrero at the top of his lungs.

The fact that no unfazed "Dude, you're yelling", came in reply, spoke volumes.

"She's in Zone A", was all Guerrero said.

"Yes, and I am very well aware that that zone encompasses the area which is at highest risk to get hit by the brunt of the storm." Winston gave up shouting, hoping that a more civilized tone would get through to Guerrero. "But there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do for her now! All bridges are closed! All tunnels are closed! You can't get to Manhattan!"

Yeah, sure, getting through to Guerrero when he had set his mind on something.

"Sorry, Winston", he said.

Winston was still wondering what he meant by that when Guerrero's hand seemed to be coming out of nowhere, delivering a karate chop that sent him directly into the realms of unconsciousness.

Putting on his jacket, Guerrero walked towards the door when suddenly Chance appeared, almost leisurely leaning in the frame, arms crossed over his chest. "So are we gonna go now or what?"

Guerrero raised an eyebrow. "Ames allowed it?"

"She's taking a nap. Teaching Ilsa safe-cracking 101 was quite exhausting."

Chuckling, Guerrero walked past his friend, stepped into the corridor…and realized too late that that had been a mistake.

The taser's shock, delivered straight to his spine area, paralyzed him immediately.

"Sorry, bro", Chance murmured as he stepped over him on his way to the exterior door. "Can't risk losing you both."

"You goddamn bastard!", Ames, having gotten rid of her gag but still solidly chained to the heating, yelled after him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Chance had a buddy at the NYC fire department, Dwayne. His ticket into Manhattan despite the closed tunnels and bridges. Wearing the characteristic bunker gear of New York's bravest, complete with black helmet, he slowly rolled towards the deserted borough. Heavy rain was coming down and violent gusts of wind shook the mighty fire truck.

During his stint with the Old Man Chance had lived in the City for years. It truly was a place that never slept - the subway provided a constant droning noise level to begin with, and in addition to that there was the cacophonous sound of the never ending traffic where everybody seemed to be communicating by hooting the car horn... Not to mention the sidewalks, always packed with people.

Seeing the urban canyons of Manhattan now, bathed in apocalyptic rain, with no cars and no people... Chance usually wasn't very perceptive to that kind of atmosphere, but it _was _a creepy sight.

"Are you sure you want to go out there?", Dwayne asked as they reached the street corner Chance had named. "Communication is constantly in danger of breaking down. You'd be completely on your own..."

Chance could tell his friend was worried and the fireman in Dwayne, with its strong protective instinct, was probably screaming at him right now for letting a civilian walk on these streets in that weather. But he also knew what Chance was capable of, had witnessed it first hand, actually, and if anyone could make it through that storm alive, it was him.

"Our job is to save lives, you know... so whoever is out there that needs your help, we could take over for you...", Dwayne tried one more time nevertheless.

"You'll have your hands full enough tonight", Chance replied, shaking his head. "The buildings look deserted, but this borough is far from being truly evacuated. More than sixty percent of New York City's unsheltered homeless population have their home base in Manhattan. We're talking about thousands of people sleeping on the streets and in the subway system. Many of them suffering from serious mental illnesses or addiction disorders. They simply don't grasp what "hurricane" means. Don't think social services managed to get them all into the shelters..."

Dwayne nodded. This storm, just like any other natural disaster, was going to hit those worst who already had nothing. They were, inevitably, the most ill-prepared with little to no resources to fall back on. After tonight their lives, this could be said almost with certainty, would be even worse than before... if they managed to make it through.

Nevertheless Chance would have happily left the rescue of Ilsa and Connie to the police or the fire department - he had no ambition to reach hero status by facing that storm alone... and probably leaving his son fatherless. But they only had a vague idea of where Ilsa and Connie were held prisoner. Guerrero had been able to narrow it down to four adresses - they couldn't possibly send the authorities on a wild goose chase with that monster hurricane approaching... and no real proof that Ilsa was in Manhattan at all.

Except for the fact that their source would have never lied to a knife-wielding Guerrero, that is, but they could hardly refer to that as evidence in front of a police officer.

The thought of his son made Chance's heart heavy. There was always the possibility that a job would go south really badly, that somebody had _the _shot and took it. But this was different - he was taking a giant risk and had little to no options to balance out the odds with his skills and abilities. This was a hurricane he was getting in the ring with... everybody has limits. There was no denying it: This was a suicide mission.

For Ilsa, however, Guerrero would try to break down the gates of hell... he wasn't terribly outspoken about it, flowers, silly songs and butterflies in the stomach just weren't his thing, but be that as it may, to him Ilsa was "the one". Chance knew that feeling all too well. He'd do the same for Ames. Determination alone, however, wouldn't cut it this time. As capable as Guerrero was in a million things, this job required brute force, muscle... Guerrero was by no means a lightweight, but in this storm... the mere thought of losing both Ilsa and Guerrero sent more icy cold shivers down Chance's spine than a thousand Manhattans without people could have ever caused.

As much as he loved his son - his name was burning in his mind like a bonfire - Ash was safe and dry in San Francisco. Ilsa and Guerrero needed him now.

The fire truck came to a halt at the street corner from where Chance would start his search.

The pavement was already half an inch under water. The howling wind was driving it forward - in an hour a river would be running here, with waves crashing against the streetlamps and vortexes above the sewer covers. As Chance's feet hit the water the sky opened up for a brief moment and the moon came into view - a full moon.

Full moons only occur when the moon is on the opposite side of the earth with the sun in between, which happens about every twenty-nine days. Earth and moon don't just float around in space, independently from each other. There's a strong connection between them. The moon's gravitational pull influences earth's oceans. It moves their waters, which results in tides, high tides and low tides.

Back in his Junior days Chance once covered up the assassination of a Russian Mafia don by manipulating his watch while he was visiting a small island in the North Sea not far off the coast. He made it look as if the don had drowned in his car after getting caught by the onset of high tide on his way back to the mainland. Baptiste, still an apprentice back then, had shaken his head at Junior's meticulous ways, but he had learned from it, as his later work proved clearly and distinctly.

When the moon is full, the gravitational pull of moon and sun combine because they're both in one line with earth, thus making low tides even lower and high tides even higher. Add strong winds, say from a hurricane, to that mixture and you get flooding in coastal areas which usually remain dry.

Chance looked down the street, dimly lit by lighting, and pressed his lips together. New York, with its famous high rises, was not only built upward, into the sky, it was also built downward, two to three floors deep into the ground, sometimes even more. These floors, where usually all the important devices of a building - the electricity supply, the heating, the water supply - were housed, would fill up, if not from the heavy rain then from the ocean's waters. They'd be experiencing power outages soon. And fires, from short circuits.

He hoped the Pucci women were on a roof somewhere, but his gut told him to check the cellars first.

As he trudged towards the first building on his list he briefly, very briefly thought about Eva Khan and the painted dragons. What in the world had she gotten herself into?

But it really was just a fleeting thought. He definitely had more urgent problems to face right now.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"This is all _my_ fault? Excuse me?" Ilsa sat up on her heels and stared at her sister-in-law, seriously doubting her sense of hearing.

"Why didn't you simply cut that thug's ear off?", Connie, holding her aching head in her hands, was on the verge of crying. "They would have let us go! We could be home by now, safe!"

"_Simply _cut his ear off?" Ilsa's voice climbed an octave and grew significantly louder, despite her utter exhaustion. "Are you listening to yourself? Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

"Well, your _acquaintance_, Mr. Guerrero, surely wouldn't have had any qualms about it, and given your track record lately..." With a groan, Connie rolled over and threw up again. Her stomach turning retching sounds, however, were drowned out by a mighty roar suddenly coming from outside. Was that the wind? Seriously, _the wind_? It sounded like a never ending high speed train was passing the house. Was there a storm out there?

"My _track record_?" Ilsa got up and started looking around the cellar. She had given it a superficial onceover directly after waking up, but then Connie had vomited... things had somehow gone downhill from there.

"You killed a man in Scotland! The stable hand of the castle at Loch Ceiterein! Did you think I wouldn't find out? I read the police report!"

If the situation hadn't been so grave, Ilsa would have laughed out loud. She had committed a grave sin during that dreadful stint in Scotland, true, but taking a life it had not been. Chance had shot the stable hand. To save him trouble with the police she had taken the killing upon herself - ironically after already having killed two people without anyone except the team ever knowing about it. Hector Lopez had been her first victim, almost two years earlier... and later, with her second killing, she had protected Chance.

Okay, there was also the poisoning of ex-inspector-turned-assassin Rebecca Eddington on her conscience... but just as Hector Lopez, Rebecca hadn't left her much of a choice... talk about a you-or-me type of situation...

Blimey, she missed Guerrero.

"I killed that man in self-defense!", Ilsa hissed angrily in reply.

"Be that as it may, one should think after shooting somebody, cutting off an ear should be a piece of cake for you."

Ilsa felt the urge to throttle Connie.

"I'll hope for you that you never actually experience what you're talking about", she said through clenched teeth, rummaging through the debris accumulated in the far corner of the cellar.

"What are you doing there, for heaven's sake?"

"Trying to get us out of here." Ilsa refrained from letting Connie know what a really stupid question that had been. Her sister-in-law had received a blow to the head after all. And Ilsa remembered - vaguely - that she herself hadn't able to imagine what it meant to kill a human being either... once upon a time, in the South American jungle. It seemed light years ago.

"What? Are you crazy? They surely left some sort of warden! Or booby trapped the door! We're going to sit tight here and wait for your team to arrive! I'm sure they somehow tracked us through the earpiece before it was discovered, or your _acquaintance _put a knife to somebody's throat."

Okay, blow to the head or not, Connie was seriously overdoing it right now. Granted, she was probably right about Guerrero, but still...

"_Now _you want to sit and wait? When I told you at that prison that we should just identify ourselves and then sit and wait till the Foundation paid the ransom you had nothing better to do than make up that bloody story!", Ilsa exploded.

"It was a bloody good story!", Connie almost sounded as if she had stomped her feet, hadn't she still been lying on the floor.

"As Ilsa and Connie Pucci we would have been valuable hostages for the rebellious prisoners. They would have used us as leverage and wouldn't have harmed us. But you had to tell them my name was Ames, famous thief and safe cracking expert." Ilsa spoke slowly and with as much composure as she could muster.

"Which was our ticket out of that prison!"

"And right into a group of highly dangerous thugs in need of a safe cracking expert!" Ilsa retrieved a piece of wire from a broken stool. She had practiced picking handcuffs without end under Ames' guidance, but never door locks... Hopefully they both followed the same principle.

"All the women in the prison wanted was money for their families", she said tersely. "The Foundation, as an outside, trustworthy party, could have easily paid the amount they asked for. None of those women in there was a dangerous criminal - prostitutes, pickpockets, drug addicts... none of them would have indulged in torturing us to death. We should have waited for the ransom."

"_None_ of the women prisoners was a dangerous criminal?", Connie asked, and Ilsa could hear that she was raising one of her eye brows in a mocking manner.

"Except the one you convinced I was Ames, so that she informed her boyfriend who was in desperate need of a safe cracking expert and thus broke us out of prison, yes", Ilsa conceded. "But the women had formed a council of elders, they were in charge of the rebellion. They would have protected us."

"Stay away from that door Ilsa! I don't want to be blown into pieces!", Connie snarled at her.

Ilsa, however, was pretty sure the door was not booby trapped. The air in the cellar was very moist, not a good environment for gelignite and thin wire. Aside from that the thugs that had brought them here had not used explosives during the break-in in the bank. She guessed the safe cracking expert that the group had lost in a shootout with the police a couple of weeks prior to the gig had also been their man for demolitions.

"In the prison, sitting tight and waiting would have made sense because we were under surveillance – the authorities were all around us, watching the prison. Any foul play would have been immediately noticed. Aside from that the prisoners had every reason to treat us well. Here in this cellar we're on our own, completely. They can come back anytime and do with us whatever they want. We need to get out of here."

The door made a soft clicking sound. Yes! Ames would be proud of her. Cautiously, Ilsa opened it just a crack – Connie could be right about someone watching the door after all – and gasped.

"The warden?", Connie whispered. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Water. There's water coming down the corridor. Come on!" Ilsa dashed to Connie's side and pulled her to her feet. "Something is very wrong here."

"But the warden?"

Ilsa chose not to answer. She hadn't seen anyone. That didn't mean there was nobody. But the water… Guerrero had taught her to always weigh her options and prioritize the risks. Water streaming into a cellar meant it would eventually fill up… Holding Connie by the shoulders she pushed the door open completely.

"Where in the world is all the water coming from?", her sister-in-law asked, flabbergasted.

"It sounds like there's some sort of storm going down outside." Ilsa pulled Connie towards the stairs. The water had turned them into a waterfall, making the steps slippery and unsafe. Holding on to the handrail as best as they could, they struggled upwards.

"That noise… is that the wind? What kind of a storm is that?" Connie seemed to have completely forgotten about the possibility of a warden.

Ilsa didn't blame her – the higher they climbed the louder the noises from outside grew… the whole building seemed to be shaking.

"Watch your step!", Ilsa shouted at Connie. "Once we've mastered the stairs we…"

Blackout.

The ceiling lamp had suddenly gone out.

Complete darkness.

A scream from Connie, followed by a massive rumbling sound.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"I'm going to KILL him! If he makes it through that storm, I'm going to kill him!" Ames was beside herself with rage. Her voice easily carried through the closed door of the hotel room.

"Do you hear her?", Guerrero, on the other side of said door, softly asked the man tied to the chair in front of him. "She's mightily pissed."

"Guerrero! For heaven's sake, GUERRERO, unlock those handcuffs or I swear I'll stuff them down your throat!" Winston, whom Guerrero had chained to the heating in the hotel room's bathroom so he could work in peace on the source he had dug out shortly after Chance had left, bellowed madly.

"Hear that angry walrus? He's mightily pissed, too", Guerrero informed the source.

The man's eyes were huge with fear. Well, hardly surprising, considering the collection of knives Guerrero had spread out on the table. Shining metal on a piece of black cloth, accentuating their exquisite sharpness.

Despite what the rest of the world thought, Guerrero had a thing for subtleness in certain situations.

"They're both looking for some sort of outlet, some opportunity to vent their frustration. What do you think will happen when I tell them you're keeping valuable information from us?"

Ten minutes later Guerrero knew exactly in which house Ilsa and Connie were held captive.

… … …

With the roaring storm and the thundering rain Chance almost missed his pager's signal. Luckily he had put it into his innermost pocket and set it to vibrating alert.

Using cell phones or the earpiece was out of question in this weather and with about a million people trying to access the cellular network at once. Pagers, with the very limited amount of data that they could send and receive, worked better under these conditions.

Standing in the entrance of the first building, Chance pulled the device out, squinted at the small display, realized that the message was from Guerrero, expected some sort of expletive, considering how he had parted with his friend, and then saw it only consisted of a single number: Three.

So Ilsa and Connie were at address number three.

… … …

Under normal conditions, Chance would have mastered the distance from his current position to the third address within five minutes, but with the storm it took him more than half an hour. His heart was beating madly against his chest as he struggled against the ever strengthening wind. Halfway through he barely escaped a huge chunk of debris from one of the buildings. It hit the sidewalk right behind him.

The building from which it had fallen off was making strange groaning and crunching noises – Chance had heard sounds like that on sinking ships and crashing airplanes. He hurried away as fast as the lashing rain allowed.

Suddenly the ground underneath his feet began to rumble and move. A huge wave of water washed over his legs as high as his knees and an earsplitting thunder momentarily turned him deaf – the groaning building's façade had fallen off.

Chance, never one to dwell on such things, kept on wading forward and finally rounded the corner to the street where he would find address number three. It was hard to make out any details without the streetlamps and with the clouds obscuring the full moon, but from what it looked like it was a Victorian-era German Renaissance co-op apartment building, a little run-down, but still showing clear signs of the glorious times it surely had once seen: The now crumbling corner pavilions, decorative terra-cotta panels and moldings indicated that people of the higher classes had once been supposed to live there. The main entrance looked wide enough for horse drawn carriages. A steeply pitched, probably leaking slate and copper roof, decorated with ornate railings, lots of stepped dormers, finials and pediments still claimed dominance over the other, smaller buildings.

In a strangely ironic way this was a fitting prison for two such well-to-do women as Ilsa and Connie Pucci.

With its completely black windows, in the blustering wind and driving rain, it looked somehow haunted, though, like an eerie mansion from a horror movie. But again, Chance had never been one to dwell on such things. And even if he had been, he wouldn't have allowed himself to lose focus by thinking about anything else than what it would entail to get Ilsa and Connie out of this storm alive.

He especially didn't allow himself to ponder how much Ilsa meant to him. Once upon a time she had seemed like the safe harbor in his life that in the end Ames had turned out to be. Things just hadn't worked out between them. But nevertheless, she had brought him back from that ashram in Nepal, shehad caused him to reconnect with Winston and Guerrero who, as he knew now, he could never live without. Without Ilsa, he'd probably still be sitting on that mountain, meditating, and there'd be no Ash in his life because Guerrero would have never had the chance to run that DNA sample.

A heavy gust of wind almost blew him off his feet.

He didn't simply do this to protect Guerrero and Ilsa wasn't just a friend in need.

She was family. Like Guerrero. Like Winston. Like Ames.

Like Ash.

Only a few more steps and he'd be at the once impressive arched entrance, now boarded up with wooden panels, but in earlier times surely guarded by a huge wrought iron gate.

A vortex over one of the sewers momentarily caught one of Chance's boot, threatened to tear it off, imbalanced him. Chance pulled it away, and in doing so he turned around, looking back down the street he had just trudged along.

An enormously bright blue flash suddenly illuminated one of the houses he had passed only moments ago. A loud hiss and crackle filled the air, clearly audible despite the hurricane's unceasing onslaught. Chance recognized the sound immediately, had even caused it a couple of times – a transformer or alternator, some sort of electric power source, must have exploded. Better get Ilsa and Connie soon, before the whole block would be on fire.

Oh no. There was a window opening on the fourth floor of the building where the explosion had taken place… maybe it was just an effect of the blast?

No, unfortunately not.

Somebody was still inside.

And he needed help.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Connie?"

Ilsa turned around and cautiously felt her way downstairs again, holding on to the rickety handrail for dear life. By now water as high as her ankles was coming down the steps with a mighty rush. There was a similar scene in that awful Titanic movie with that untalented what-was-his-name again? For some reason Ilsa really hated that eleven-Oscars-winning piece of cinematic nonsense. Best original song, her arse – she hadn't gotten that bloody melody out of her head for weeks.

"Connie?"

A groan from somewhere in the darkness.

Good. At least her sister-in-law wasn't unconscious. People had drowned in shallower water.

"I fell…", Connie's feeble voice came from near the foot of the stairs.

"Oh, _really_? Would have never guessed so!", Ilsa felt inclined to say, but she stifled the impulse. This was not, she reminded herself not for the first time this evening, the moment to argue.

"Reach out with your hands, stretch your arms as much as you can and move them from the left to the right, maybe I'll feel you brushing against my legs", she instructed her instead.

"I think I hurt my tailbone", Connie moaned. "I hit something hard when I landed." Her fingers found Ilsa's knee and a moment later her brother's wife was pulling her into an upright position.

"We need to get out of the basement", Ilsa determined. "It looks like it's filling up, and fast. Hold on to the belt loops of my pants, I'll lead you upstairs. But seriously, be careful with your steps, if you slip again, we'll both fall."

Connie didn't take kindly to Ilsa's commanding tone. She was used to be in a leadership role herself, even more so ever since Ilsa had withdrawn from active Foundation business. Despite the dire situation, her sister-in-law taking over control just like that somehow irked her. "At the risk of getting on your nerves – none of this would have happened if you had cut that bastard's ear off!"

Ilsa resisted the urge to kick backwards like a mule and sent her bumping down the stairs again.

"Connie?", she pressed through clenched teeth as she, painfully slowly, ascended the steps once more.

"Yes?"

"You ARE getting on my nerves."

"Being with these people surely ruined your manners, dear. Pity it did nothing against your exhausting dilatoriness in decisive situations."

Okay, this time around all that saved Connie from another spectacular artistic downwards was the fact that they had finally, FINALLY reached the top of those blooming stairs.

"What is it with you?", Ilsa gasped exasperatedly. "Why in the world can't you just let go? Why do you have to bring this up time and time again?"

"Because everything went so well! We got out of the prison, your team managed to get us that earpiece in an, admittedly, very creative way, you managed to crack that safe and we were almost, almost free – when you ruined it all with your ridiculous scruples!"

Luckily the door leading out the cellar wasn't locked. Ilsa had somehow hoped once they'd get out of the cellar there'd be light, it would get easier to orientate, but instead they found themselves in more pitch black darkness, corridors flooded with water and no indication which way they could find the exit. There was no other choice, they had to trust their luck and just keep going till they hopefully found another door, one that would get them out of this mess.

"Ridiculous scruples? The only thing ridiculous is that _you_, Connie Pucci, Chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation, a pillar of the organization and its public face, are actually tearing me off a strip because I refused cutting off another human being's ear!"

"It was a thug! You heard him talk! He bragged with rape and murder! He was nothing but a piece of worthless mullock! They were testing us – cutting his ear off would have proved your criminal status and they'd have let us go!"

"A worthless piece of mullock yes, but torture is in no way acceptable!"

_Unless certain people's lives are at stake_, Ilsa added silently, deciding that saying it out loud would somewhat ruin her line of argumentation.

"That was definitely not the moment to adopt a strict interpretation of the Foundation's official declaration of principle! You risked both our lives for a psychopathic monster! Well, I guess being with _Mr. Guerrero_ somewhat altered your moral standards."

Connie slipped, bumped against Ilsa's back and all of a sudden she found herself thrown against a wall, with her sister-in-law shouting against the howling noises from the outside right into her ear.

"You have no idea what torture does to the people who execute it. You hurt a human being, nothing is ever the same. A part of you remains tainted forever. You cross a line and can never go back. Everything suddenly becomes uncertain. You ask yourself what else you're capable of and if, one day, you'll turn against those you love… if there's a point where you'll stop or if all dams have broken… Don't get me wrong, that bastard deserves punishment, yes, but not by my hands – that's what we've got the law for!"

Ilsa released Connie.

"Come on, we really need to get out of here", she said, suddenly terribly tired.

Connie, her ears ringing and finally smart enough to keep her mouth shut, stumbled after her, still clinging to her belt loops.

At the end of the corridor they found a door that, judging from its design and general feel of solidness, seemed to lead outside. It was unlocked, but opening it nevertheless proved incredibly difficult. The strange, howling wind from the outside was pressing against it… and was that hammering sound rain?

Combining their strengths, Connie and Ilsa managed to push it open – and almost fell onto the street when the raging storm caught the door, tore it off its hinges and carried it away like a sheet of paper.

They found themselves looking at apocalypse.

"What in the…?", Connie choked.

"We've got to get back inside, there's no way we can make it through this…" Ilsa stopped in mid-sentence.

There was movement in the darkness.

A shadow stumbling towards them.

"Help! You need to help me! The house is on fire and my father…."

A young woman, completely exhausted from struggling against the hurricane, came falling into Ilsa's arms.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

A fire needs three elements to ignite: Heat, fuel and an oxidizing agent.

The exploding transformer in the apartment house's ground floor had sent sparks of blue white hotness flying everywhere.

Heat.

Of course keeping any combustible material anywhere near the house's electric heart was strictly prohibited by law. Building management, however, couldn't have cared less. They had let one of the tenants stash a thick woolen carpet right next to the appliances. Along with a pile of wallpaper rolls and a bucket of paint thinner.

Fuel.

The hurricane's howling wind had torn huge holes into the roof and broken windows all over the floors. It was blowing down the corridors like a stampede of mustangs, shaking the house's very foundation. There was plenty of fresh air coming into the cellar although it was deep below ground level.

Oxygen.

Theoretically the door to the room where the transformer was kept should have been fireproofed.

Practically the costs had been too high. Bribing the fire inspector had been so much more reasonable in price. And considering the high fluctuation and low quality of the tenants… most of them were happy to have a roof above their heads at all – none of them would complain.

The burning carpet and wallpaper quickly created enough heat to keep the fire burning although the initial energy of the electric explosion was already gone. Once the paint thinner joined in, there was no holding back anymore. Like a many-headed snake the flames crept forwards, licked at the floor and finally ate their way through the thin wooden door.

In the corridor the flames met rainwater pouring in from outside. Vapor rose, angry hissing sounds erupted, but the fire found a way to evade the lashing waves. It climbed up the walls and started burning its way to the next floor right through the ceiling.

… … …

Chance recognized the characteristic stench of singed plastic fibers and particle boards as he approached the building and knew immediately what was going to happen: The fire was going to engulf the house from bottom to top, trapping everyone in the upper levels, cutting off all escape routes one by one.

He had to act fast. The man by the window didn't seem to be capable of getting out of the room on his own. He needed his help.

Without actually consciously deciding it, Chance waved with his flashlight, hoping he'd see that help was on his way. It was unlikely the man was going to notice him, though – with the blackness of the night and the heavy rain and wind he had probably already retreated from the window again. Chance, from his point of view, couldn't see him anymore.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered what this would mean for Ilsa and Connie, but there was no time to dwell on that subject for any particular amount of time.

Ilsa had come a long way since starting to work with him. She'd somehow hang in there and watch out for Connie.

Shouldering his way through the already damaged entrance door, he stepped into the house.

Thank God he was equipped with fireman's gear. Thick, poisonous smoke was filling the hallway, wavering above the flooded floor. Fire and water were caught up in a struggle for dominance and Chance had walked right in.

He put on his breathing mask and headed up the stairs. Thankfully, they were made of concrete, not wood… a slight possibility they'd still be there on his way back, too… but time was tight nevertheless - he needed to get to the man before the fire managed to completely devour the lower floors.

… … …

The young woman was stumbling forwards on the edge of complete exhaustion. Judging from the expression on her face, she was fueled by sheer determination alone. Ilsa and Connie were right behind her.

The rain was hitting their faces like a million nails hailing down on them, the wind threatened to blow them of their feet, they were drenched after seconds… but she kept on marching ahead, driven by worry and terror.

Connie would have loved to shout at Ilsa for not staying in the relative safety of the apartment building and instead risking their lives out here in this nightmare come true. The storm, however, was tearing so hard at her, she needed all her energy to keep going.

The woman guided them to the back of a building that was clearly on fire. Huge flames were raging behind empty window frames of the first floor.

"My father is on the top floor! He's in a wheelchair and the elevator is not working!", she yelled, pointing upwards. "Our apartment's windows are on the other side!"

With the wind coming in from the east it would be impossible to round the corner and get to the front of the building. But all entrances in the back were already blocked by the fire…

"Why didn't you go to a shelter when there was still time?" Connie shouted at the woman. "With a storm this big the city surely would have offered assistance to get him out of there before it hit!"

Ilsa decided that it was useless wasting breath and energy on telling Connie that she was not helpful. In a way she could also relate to Connie's outbreak. How many times during their past cases had she herself felt the urge to yell at a client why he or she had been so insanely stupid to make the decisions that had made him or her ask for Chance's services in the end? Especially during the Penny Cleves case she had more than once wished she could simply kick that woman's butt for outright dumbness.

But it was no use – the clients always were deep in shit and needed immediate help, no matter how they had gotten themselves in there.

In principle this was the same situation here.

"We've got to build a pedestal to get in!" Ilsa struggled to get a hold of one of the big metal garbage cans near the back door. They were full and thus very heavy, but that was actually a plus – the wind would have blown them away, had they been empty.

"The wind and the rain are keeping the fire inside and the flooding is slowing its progress down!", she shouted. "The second floor should be relatively untouched yet, if we climb in there…"

"You want to CLIMB IN? THAT'S INSANE!" Connie's voice was barely audible over the thundering noises of the hurricane. The wind carried her voice away although she was standing right next to Ilsa and the young woman.

"You want to let my father burn to death?", the young woman screamed at her.

Connie looked her in the face – she was barely twenty… and helped Ilsa move the garbage cans so that they formed an unstable pile.

"Even if, big IF, we manage to get inside that building", Connie told her sister-in-law as they wedged a container into a position that was a little more secure. "How are you planning to get her father downstairs?"

"I like to wing it, Connie!", Ilsa shouted and clambered a little higher.

The pile shook madly from the wind, not to mention that it was extremely slippery, but somehow Ilsa managed to get to a broken window on the second floor.

_Connie has a point_, she thought, her stomach tightening. _How am I going to climb all the way down again, with a paralyzed man on my back?_

She reached through the shards of jagged glass to open the window frame so that she could at least climb in without risking to cut herself.

_I have no idea how to get that man out of here alive. What was I thinking even trying? I've endangered Connie by dragging her out here… _

At this very moment a hand took hers.

It was a big, calloused hand that could deliver hard blows and grip with an iron fist if necessary. But it could also tenderly wipe tears away.

Ilsa recognized it immediately.

"The hurricane tore the fire escape ladder off the building", Chance said, readjusting the man on his back to get him ready for the descend over the garbage cans. "Some quick thinking of you to build us an escape route."

Ilsa squeezed his hand and made way.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and I intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Special thanks to minx227 who provided a very interesting thought for this chapter & of course, as always, THANK YOU niagaraweasel for all your help!**_

"I hardly recognize you anymore. What happened to you? You're not the Ilsa Pucci I used to know and love like a real sister!" Connie's bitter parting words were still ringing in Ilsa's ears although hours had passed since the jet had taken off, leaving a devastated East Coast behind.

According to the weather forecast temperatures were going to drop significantly within the next few days and snow would come upon the very same area that had just been hit by the hurricane. Another catastrophe on top of the first one, since millions of people were without electric power – no heating, no hot water, no gasoline…

The Marshall Pucci Foundation had released a huge amount of emergency funds and helpers from all over the continent were on their way right now to support the official institutions. It was a good thing Connie was already on the spot to organize things. Judging from what they had seen once daylight had come, however, the rebuilders were facing a Herculean task. Nothing would ever be the same.

Ilsa couldn't help but think that Marshall's death had done to her life what Sandy had done to the East Coast. It was true, she wasn't the same Ilsa Pucci anymore that had worked, shopped, socialized alongside Connie Pucci. The philanthropic society lady had turned into … what? A shady sort of vigilante? A death-retardant specialist's assistant?

Would Marshall still recognize her?

She recalled the words in the letter he had left her... she still knew them by heart, although she hadn't read it in a while.

_Strongest woman I've ever known. _

Guerrero came walking down the jet's aisle, sat down next to her and handed her a glass of Scotch on the Rocks.

"_You_ would have cut his ear off, right?", Ilsa asked, not daring to look at him.

"Yes", he said, barely audibly but firmly.

"It would have saved us a lot of trouble…" She let the sentence trail off. Her decision not to do it could have resulted in horrible disaster. It had been a close call.

His reply came without hesitation. "You did the right thing."

And then he actually leaned over and brushed the briefest of kisses against her cheek.

Guerrero wasn't one for public exchange of affections, so this was doubly touching. Ilsa looked at him, dared a faint smile for the first time that day and decided Connie had gotten it all wrong – "these people", Chance, Winston, Ames, Guerrero… they hadn't _destroyed_ the old Ilsa Pucci. They had _rebuilt_ her after the catastrophe of Marshall's death had almost shattered her.

"We should really discuss what to do about Eva Khan, now that certain questions are settled." _…for the time being, _Winston added silently as he approached Ilsa and Guerrero from the direction of the galley. He'd somehow pay Guerrero back for knocking him unconscious like that, he would!

Winston was skipping through the pages of the file on Eva while walking, but actually he was resting his eyes on Chance and Ames, who were slowly making their way to the front from the back of the plane. Ames' thundering "PULL A STUNT LIKE THAT AGAIN AND YOU'LL SLEEP ON THE COUCH FOR A YEAR!" still seemed to be echoing through the jet.

Well, it wasn't the first time Chance had gotten a thorough dressing-down after a job and he took it in his usual unfazed manner. Boyish smile on his face, he flopped down in the seat next to Ilsa. Ames, however, was obviously still simmering, and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes didn't help. She sat down opposite from him, as far away as possible, holding her back uncharacteristically upright.

"Yeah, dear Eva seems to have gotten herself into quite a bit of trouble", Chance said lazily, glancing at his own copy of the file. "A tournament to determine who'll be the leader of an… obscure…" for a moment his expression changed, revealed a deeper layer of emotion, but only Ames and Guerrero noticed "… temple in the jungle of Borneo. It seems leaving the temple's emblem at a prominent location served as some sort of entrance ticket to that tournament."

"As far as we know Eva Khan's father spent some time at that temple in his younger years… there used to be a so-called "master" …Ryvuu… Ryuu… Rynuu…? He apparently helped him a great deal to find his way in life…", Winston read from his file. "The community seems to have declined ever since… there are indications its members are nowadays involved in black-marketeering of tropical timber and illegal hunting… looks like Eva wants to restore the temple to its old glory by taking part in that tournament and winning."

While Winston was speaking, Chance underneath the table gradually slid his leg forward, till his foot reached Ames. He slipped out of his shoe and gently, very gently began running it up and down her legs.

Ames rolled her eyes. She wasn't sixteen anymore. Her days of playing footsie with somebody were over.

But oh damn, Chance was enormously skillful… and he had very nimble toes… His soft strokes along her skin were like a promise to completely make up for his misbehavior… if only given the opportunity.

"According to my guy in Borneo the last tournament round will be a fight till death", Guerrero chimed in. "Samurai sword fighting style."

"We won't let that happen", Chance stated firmly, his toes resting against a particularly sensitive spot of Ames' inner thigh, applying just enough pressure to make her want more. "Eva is no killer and we won't let her become one."

The pilot announced that they'd arrive at SF airport soon.

"But maybe we should postpone making plans for one night and just get some R&R", Chance suggested, fastening his seatbelt.

Everyone except Ames looked at him like he had just sprouted a second head. Even Guerrero raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"I'm somehow really tired…" Chance stretched his arms and yawned "… not really keen on facing evening traffic to get back to the warehouse….There's a really nice hotel a block down from the airport, I'm thinking about getting a room there for the night. We hadn't been planning to get back to San Francisco today anyway, had we?"

Oh, those twinkling eyes. Ames pressed her lips together, but try as she might, they curled into a smile nevertheless.

The plane's wheels set down on the tarmac.

"Uh, bro, maybe you'll want to face evening traffic after all…", Guerrero said, checking his smart phone. "Looks like someone is getting an unauthorized tour of the office…" He showed Chance the video feed from the warehouse's security cams.

… … …

"Nice place", Helen conceded, nodding appreciatively at her surroundings. "Gym, firing range, stylish lobby… you've got a holding cell, too?"

Ash shrugged in what he hoped was a cool "could be, but I can't tell you"-gesture.

For a moment none of them said anything and the quietness of the office became almost palpable.

"So no one is here?", Helen said, eyes resting on him. "Your folks are away on a job?"

"Yeah, they won't be back before tomorrow…" Ash let the sentence trail off… were they thinking the same or were his hormones making him imagine things?

More silence.

Helen kept looking at him.

His gut told him that she was expecting him to make some sort of move… but what if his usually reliable gut feeling was somehow distorted…. by something below his waistline?

Helen sighed, grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the couch usually reserved for waiting clients. "The fog is making my leg worse and this looks really comfortable!"

She flopped down on the cushions and pulled him with her.

He was completely paralyzed.

This was a different kind of being "alone with a girl" than stealing a private moment behind the gym or the ice rink. This was being _truly _alone. And the girl in question was Helen. Helen, who visited him in his dreams at night…

"For heaven's sake, ASH!"

The real Helen smacked his chest.

"Am I that appalling?" For the first time ever since he had met her she sounded unsure of herself.

Ash finally came to again. "No, no…" He reached out, gently ran a finger along the line of her face and leaned over. Just like last time, their lips seemed to melt into each other.

This time around, however, she went for his shirt, tunneled underneath the fabric, ran her hands up his back… and he did the same. His fingers found the clasp of her bra in no time. Damnit, it was one of those complicated things where you needed an engineer's degree to… it unhooked.

Helen threw a leg over his thighs and pulled herself onto his lap.

_DING…._

_The elevator_, Ash thought dimly…

Oh SHIT, the elevator!

"Give them a second to rearrange…" Ames told Chance inside the car, snapping her smartphone with the video feed shut.

When the elevator's door slid open, Helen was still sitting on the sofa, but Ash was leaning against the glass wall of Ilsa's office, practically on the other side of the room.

"Looks like we've got a visitor…", Chance said, entering the office. "Nice to see you again, Helen." Then he rested his eyes on Ash.

"Son…"


	29. waking dragons

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ waking dragons ~**_

Back in the jet again…

Ilsa couldn't help but think that according to leading scientists one of the reasons Hurricane Sandy had become such a monster was the global warming… to which the enormous increase in air traffic over the past few decades was significantly contributing. Cars were producing less CO2 nowadays, thanks to better engines and more effective fuel, but all that saving was rendered almost useless because more planes than ever were in the air.

But what were they supposed to do? Take an ecologically compatible sailing ship? There was a woman's soul at risk. They needed to act fast.

Sighing, Ilsa pulled a sleeping mask over her eyes. There were still a couple of hours left before they'd land in Borneo, better to make good use of it. Who knew what would be waiting for them once they'd made it to that strange temple?

She couldn't quite lay a finger on it, but the look on Guerrero's face whenever the place had been mentioned in the planning stage of the job had somehow bode ill… there was something about that temple, about the dragon paintings, that he wasn't telling her. In addition to that neither he nor Chance had bothered to explain yet why they were carrying exactly the same dragon symbols as tattoos on their shoulders.

Figuring that she'd most likely find out the hard way soon enough, Ilsa curled up in her reclining seat, adjusted her ear phones and put on some Tchaikovsky music.

_The calm before the storm_, she thought.

… … ….

_Eva Khan._

_Eva Khan…_

Ames flipped the name over and over in her head like a coin. She knew it would make a lot more sense to follow Ilsa's example and grab some sleep before they'd be thrown into the next mess. They had done some serious planning this time around, but Ames was working with Chance long enough by now to know eventually it would all go up in smoke and they'd have to get creative. They hopefully had good doctors in Borneo…

_Eva Khan…_

Chance had told her that he "knew" that woman even before she had had an opportunity to ask. How nice of him.

Really.

She appreciated his honesty.

And seriously, the thing between Eva and him had gone down a year before she had even met him at Ilsa's charity event. An adrenalin-induced one night stand, nothing more. Recreational sex.

She had always known he hadn't lived a life of celibacy before her. Hell, she had even witnessed him getting friendly with that doctor in Syria… not to mention the horrible incident with Ilsa in Scotland, at that damn lake.

But still… she was going to meet a woman who, at one point in Chance's life, had posed an attraction to him. The thing with Ilsa in Scotland… in hindsight Ames understood it a lot better and she had forgiven him. It had been more about desperation than about attraction anyway.

The Eva Khan thing, however, was totally different. Not because she didn't trust Chance… it was just… looking at her and knowing… Gah.

Tired of her windmilling thoughts, Ames switched on the TV.

… … …

Winston watched Guerrero over the rim of his cup of coffee and just knew something was up. It was the way he was looking at the clouds. Guerrero _never _looked at the clouds when on the jet. He usually checked his notes while flying, reports saved on his smart phone, photos or maps, stuff like that. Guerrero liked to be prepared.

Or he ate. Munched on an apple, a sandwich, take away leftovers he had brought with him – whatever food he could scavenge was his.

Most often, he did both, studied some illegally obtained documents and crumbled all over them 'cause he was having a snack at the same time.

This time around, however, he hadn't touched any of the food in the galley, not even the Tupperware box clearly marked as Winston's.

If that wasn't reason for concern…

… … …

Guerrero thought about the dragon that adorned both Chance's and his shoulder. Why had they gotten those tattoos? They had never talked about this particular decision, not once in all those years. Two matching tattoos, only inverted.

It had to do with Ryuu, yes. But there was more to it.

Joubert had hated them first glance onwards. He had gone through the roof when he found out. Cruel, hard-hearted bastard that he was, he had immediately realized that there was much more behind those tattoos, a story that went a lot deeper than some drunken foolishness they had tried to make him believe it was. Joubert had instinctively sensed what they themselves had understood only much, much later.

And never, since they were guys, had really put into words…

The tattoo had been a seed… a seed that had slowly grown over the years, barely perceptible at first, till it had broken through the soil that night at the cabin with Kathrin Walters, where he hadn't killed – hadn't been able to kill – Junior and instead had risked getting killed by him.

Which he hadn't done. He had had the shot and not taken it.

They were brothers.

… … …

Far down below the jungle of Borneo came into view. The jungle with its 15.000 species of flowering plants, 3000 species of trees and 420 species of birds… with it Orangutans, Asian Elephants, Sumatran Rhinoceroses, Hose's Civets, Dayak Fruit Bats and, most importantly, Bornean Clouded Leopards… It looked less dense than it had been and those Palm oil plantations seemed to be eating through it like cancer. Nevertheless it was still a vast sea of emerald green, with the river running through like a large silvery snake… or the twisted tail of a huge dragon.

As the plane approached further, thick rainclouds closed in, obscuring the landscape in thick gray mist.


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Sixteen fighters contending for leadership of the Temple. Sixteen fighters, three rounds of elimination matches and one final battle… designed as a match to the death. Only one contender would leave the battleground alive.

A mortal combat not just for the participants: The very future of the Temple itself was at stake. Depending on who would win it could either become a training ground for aspiring terrorists, a headquarter for Borneo's up and rising drug cartel or it could return to its old ways and become a haven again for those who wanted to turn a fresh leaf.

Eva Khan knew exactly why she was taking part: Master Ryuu had saved her father, had brought him to his senses, had turned him into the wonderful man he had been… without Ryuu, without the temple he had built, she most likely would have never come into being. The old Vincent Khan would have given his girlfriend money to get an abortion at the news of her pregnancy. The Vincent Khan who had spent a year in the Temple decided to take responsibility for his actions and became the best father one could think of.

She was fiercely determined to save Ryuu's legacy. Unfortunately in order to do so she had to become a murderer.

Unbeknownst to her, however, a couple of people down by the lake where the first round of elimination matches would take place, were working very hard to prevent exactly that.

… … …

Crocodiles are ambush hunters. They hide in the shadows, motionless, watching and waiting. Zoos often put up signs along the lines of _"Despite the rather tranquil impression they make, our crocodiles are neither mockups nor doped. They're just biding their time till they get hold of the next foolish visitor who wants to show off in front of his girlfriend. Bitten off limbs are NOT cool."_ Some species even attack sharks when the opportunity presents itself.

The rules of the first elimination round were simple enough – the matches were to take place on bateaus floating in the middle of the lake. No railing, just a square of wood in the water. Both fighters would be equipped with Kendo sticks. The sole aim of the confrontation was to somehow cause the opponent to fall off the platform. Once you hit the water you were out. End of story.

To make sure that only the fighter's participation and not also his life would end, the team had come up with a simple but rather time- and energy-consuming solution – they'd catch all crocodiles inhabiting the lake, keep them confined for a couple of hours and then release them again once that part of the competition was over.

Guerrero had suggested simply shooting the crocodiles and Winston had, given the fact that time was pressing, seconded that. Ames had reluctantly agreed with this, admittedly, pretty brutal approach, too, seeing no other option. Chance and Ilsa, however, had joined forces, convinced Ames to rethink her opinion and thus Operation Catch the Croc it was.

Its streamlined body allows the crocodile to plough forward swiftly. What makes it even faster is the ability to tuck its feet to the side while swimming. In addition to that the webbed feet enable the animal to make fast turns and sudden moves. Their jaws can bite down with immense force, over five thousand pounds per square inch, while a great white shark only manages four hundred pounds.

Interestingly, though, the jaws are opened by a rather weak set of muscles. It is indeed possible to actually tape their jaws or hold them shut with large elastic straps, as it is sometimes shown in Hollywood movies. Once they can't move their mouths, they are rather controllable.

The problem was to get them into that state…

At the end of the day they were horribly tired, scratched, bruised and altogether fed up. Fourteen sullen crocodiles were safely roaming the pen behind the team's secret headquarter in the abandoned village near the temple. Ames had a deep cut on her thigh that she was sure would leave a scar. She vowed to buy a crocodile skin leather handbag first thing she got back to San Francisco.

… … …

Guerrero tended to Ames' wound since it required stitches. When he afterwards entered the tent he was sharing with Ilsa, she was sitting cross-legged on a mat on the ground, applying some sort of moisturizing lotion to her bare arms in long strokes.

"Are you going to tell me what the story behind the tattoos is or are you planning to keep me in the dark forever?", she asked in the old British-with-a- capital-B" tone of voice that she had used so much back when they had started working together. Nowadays, like right now for example, she mostly used it in a sort of mocking sense.

Guerrero, however, didn't feel like getting mocked. Not here, in Borneo, where so much began.

"Are you sure you want to know, boss?", he asked, kneeling down behind her.

His voice, devoid of all humor, sent a shiver down her spine. That was his killer voice, the one he used to scare people… or to make clear to them that the tackle box with all its hooks, metal cutters and forceps wasn't just for show.

Guerrero wrapped an arm around Ilsa's upper chest. His hand, resting so close to her neck, was empty, but she recognized the gesture – if he had a knife, the position would be perfect to cut her throat.

His embrace wasn't gentle. She could feel his hard muscles against her body. Should she struggle he'd keep her in place like a bench vise.

Of course Ilsa knew better than to struggle.

He lowered his face to her ear, so close, his beard was scratching against her lobe as he spoke. And then he told her. The whole story, beginning with the order from the Old Man and ending with Ryuu's death. There was no need for adding the epilogue where they had gotten the tattoos… she could draw her own conclusions regarding their meaning now.

When he fell silent, Ilsa slightly turned her head and kissed his hand.


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

The next round of the tournament was going to take place in lofty heights: A canyon, extremely steep, with the river running at the bottom of it. A faint silver line way down on the ground… At least usually. Today, for some strange reason, the river was obscured by thick, almost billowing mist, a rather uncommon occurrence in this area.

Neither the fighters nor the organizers of the spectacle had time or energy to contemplate the matter much, though. The tournament demanded their full attention. Again the basic idea was very simple – the participant who made it to the other side of the canyon first would win the round, the other one was out and could go home.

There was an additional twist, though. This time around the contenders were not only competing with each other, they also had to stay within a certain time limit. Everybody had five minutes to cross the abyss. If it took you five minutes and one second, you were out.

Theoretically nobody was supposed to die. De facto, however, killing your opponent allowed you to gain a significant edge when it came to beating the clock…

The participants had to use rope bridges to get across the canyon. They were built in one of the simplest forms possible: A footrope and approximately head-high above it a single guide rope – that was it. But again, there was a twist to it. Two of these constructions were built next to each other and ran from the starting point onwards in parallel – at least up to a certain point right in the middle of the canyon, where they merged. A highly interesting design that, from a bird's eye view, looked like a big "Y".

From that merging point onwards, only one bridge led to the finish. To get to the other side first, you had to get to the merging point first – and of course your chances for that infinitely rose if you kicked your opponent into the abyss first. It was no coincidence that the rope bridges were swinging so freely…

… … …

Eva Khan was in a dilemma. She was a very good fighter, agile and swift, but great heights were her Achilles' heel. The wind up here on this cliff was enormous; it pulled at the ropes of the bridges and made them shake even without anyone hanging onto them. She didn't even want to imagine what it would feel like to be right above the yawning abyss, with nothing to hold onto except those ridiculously thin ropes… it was a good thing the mist was covering up how high they actually were.

Speaking of…

"We need more fog, Ilsa." Guerrero's voice via earpiece.

"I am working on it, but there's something wrong with the machine, it seems to be… hiccupping…" Ilsa, perched on a small ledge about fifteen feet underneath the rope bridge construction, gave the fog machine her strictest "I'm the boss here"-stare as she punched the on/off button one more time. Of course it didn't work. Well, it had been worth a try.

"The fog is starting to clear, two or three more minutes and we'll become visible", Ames chimed in. Together with Guerrero she was in charge of the safety net hidden a couple of feet underneath the screen of mist Ilsa was supposed to create. They were both dressed up in full climbing harness and ready to get any participant who'd come falling down the abyss. The sedative to keep those people calm was already prepared, so was the duct tape and the cable fixers they'd use to tie them up.

Winston would watch over their temporary captives once they were off the net. The plan was to transport them to the next settlement, pour alcohol over them and cut them loose in a bar. The sedative would affect their memory; they wouldn't be able to put the events back together in hindsight.

"Almost like a spider", Chance had chuckled when he had assigned Ames with net duty. "The moment somebody lands in your net you'll poison him, wrap him up nicely and store him away."

Of course Ames had objected. "You didn't seriously just compare me to an ugly, hairy insect predator?"

"You have to admit, there are certain similarities…" He had given her one of his trademark little boy smiles. Unfortunately for him, Ames was beginning to develop a certain immunity.

"Aren't you afraid of spiders?"

Touché. But of course Chance had tried playing it cool and just rolled his eyes. "Only one special kind of spider – the banana spider, most poisonous spider in the world."

"Well, if I were you I'd watch out for the black widow, too."

"Ilsa, if the fog clears and they see us, it's all over." Guerrero's voice again, patient, calm, not threatening, not urging, simply stating a fact.

"I've tried everything, checked all possible sources of error…." Ilsa was getting desperate. Ever since yesterday evening she knew there was even more at stake than Eva Khan's soul and the future of the Temple – this was also about saving an important part of Chance's and Guerrero's past. This place had once protected them from becoming monsters…

The fog was thinning significantly. If anyone looked downwards now… They had chosen white rope for the net, less visible from great heights, but still…

"Bloody thing!" Ilsa kicked the fog machine.

It toppled over, started rolling… oh no, directly towards the… Ilsa lunged forwards and managed to grab the device just when it reached the end of the ledge. Lying flat out on her stomach, knees bruised from her unexpected baseball slide, she held onto it with only her fingertips.

"Bloody, bloody thing!", she cursed through clenched teeth.

At which the machine started spitting fog again – a huge, mighty cloud of whitish stuff, directly in her face.

"Well done, boss!", came the unison praise from her team members. Ilsa however, leaning against the canyon wall, eyes stinging and face sticky, couldn't help but think that sometimes she did miss her office in London and the paperwork.

… … …

Eva didn't watch her opponent disappear in the mist. It was bad enough knowing that with one simple kick she had sent him on a tumbling fall that would inevitably end with his death. She really didn't need to see it.

He hadn't left her much of a choice, really. The way he had attacked her… It had been either him or her… Part of Eva was relieved. Now she knew for sure that she could kill. She'd need that ability for the final battle.


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

A snake pit.

The third round of the tournament was supposed to take place in a snake pit. Again the basic idea was very simple: A hole in the ground with lots of Western green mambas in it. A plank across the pit, strong enough to carry two people. No additional weapons – time for the fighters to demonstrate their unarmed martial arts skills. The participant who managed to kick his opponent into the pit would win the round.

Theoretically the loser could get out of the pit unharmed: The hole wasn't that deep and the organizers had inserted handholds here and there along the walls so that it was possible to climb out. On the other hand, since the ground was literally crawling with green snakes it was rather unlikely to make it to the handholds without getting bitten first. And the Western green mamba is one of the most venomous snakes in the world…

A Western green mamba's poison consists mainly of neurotoxins, cardiotoxins and fasciculins. Its effects set in rather fast, usually about fifteen minutes after the bite. Symptoms include local pain and swelling, ataxia, headache, drowsiness, difficulty breathing, vertigo, hypotension, diarrhea, dizziness and paralysis. They get worse with every minute the victim remains untreated. In the end they lead to death by suffocation thanks to a paralysis of the respiratory muscles. It usually takes two to four hours till a victim dies, but cases are known in which people passed away less than an hour after getting bitten.

The lucky ones, if you will.

So, green mambas are very dangerous… unless, of course, a certain someone milked them thoroughly in the night prior to the fight. Then falling into the pit would only result in a couple of painful bites, but nothing with lasting effects. A completely milked snake needs about fourteen days to restock on poison.

This was a job for Guerrero if there had ever been one. Milking snakes is a highly dangerous procedure. Even experts can get hurt – one wrong move, one tiny lapse and it might be your last. Milking fifty mambas in one night was a Herculean task , almost impossible… Chance or Winston would have probably had the physical strength to help, but Guerrero was the only one capable of maintaining for such a long period of time the enormously high level of concentration the task required.

Sure, Chance and Winston were able to focus, too, but they were both more hands-on types of persons who liked to barge in and shoot the bad guys. Guerrero could meticulously work on a complicated linkage to a military satellite for hours, he was the one for tricky all night computer problems of the hacking kind… that sort of training came in very handy now, just like his finely tuned karate reflexes.

In a way, Guerrero figured, dealing with the snakes was not that much different from his usual work – a simple mistake or, just as often, an unlucky turn of events beyond your control, could lead to disaster in seconds. Over the years he had become pretty good at dealing with that kind of pressure. Not all by himself, though.

Guerrero would never verbalize it, but he knew very well that without the stabilizing factors in his life, he would have never seen his forties. His friendship with Chance, the birth of his son, Ilsa… they had saved him from falling, provided him with the strength to still be on top of the game.

Nevertheless Winston was standing by with the antidote.

The rest of the team was busy with an indeed more hands-on problem – the organizers of the tournament were very good at devising deadly outsets for each round, but the actual realization of their ideas left a lot to be desired. The ropes that the participants had had to use to get to the other side of the canyon hadn't been attached properly. Guerrero had noticed at the last minute and they had managed to secure everything just in time.

The problem this time around was that the walls of the pit weren't stable. The builders hadn't taken into consideration how soft the rainforest ground was thanks to the frequent rainfalls – that's why it was called RAINforest, duh. Anyway, if they let the construction remain as it was, come tomorrow the pit would be in highest danger of collapsing, especially with the vibrations the fighters on the plank would inevitably cause.

Stabilizing the pit was complicated – Ilsa had hired a Japanese structural engineer, a renowned expert in his field, who was in contact with her via web cam. She paid him quite a bit of money to oversee their actions and give advice all night long. Of course the almost obscenely high amount of money also served the purpose of encouraging him to keep his mouth shut about a famous philanthropist and billionaire, crawling around in a hole in the jungle of Borneo in the middle of the night.

When Ames and Ilsa finally came back to their temporary HQ in the early morning light, mud-caked from top to bottom and exhausted as hell, they found Winston in the process of wrapping a bandage around Guerrero's forearm.

"Just a scratch. Milking was already done", he grumbled. "Dude, you're stopping the blood circulation! Didn't they teach you anything at police academy?"

The fact that Winston didn't give any kind of snarky reply spoke volumes about the true nature of the incident.

"When you buy that crocodile-skin handbag, Ames, make sure to get me some snakeskin pumps, too… I'm confident I'll find a matching business suit to go with them", Ilsa mumbled, taking over applying the bandage. Guerrero rested his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes the moment the others were out the door.

… … …

The snake pit ordeal was over. Eva lay in the dark and tried to sleep. Once again she had prevailed and won another round of the tournament… at the cost of another person's life. When they had carried her fallen opponent away he had still been breathing, crying from pain under his mask… It was a good thing they all wore hoods and masks… the anonymity made it easier to deliver the killing blow. Three snakes at once had bitten him. They were way too far away from any medical facility and there was no antidote provided…

With a single kick she had sentenced a man to certain death.

The whole idea behind taking part in this insanity had been to save the legacy of the Temple, to restore it to its old glory and turn it into a haven for people in need of help again. Could this realistically work when the new beginning she was hoping for was already tainted with the blood of people? Could she really help others to turn a fresh leaf, to start anew, when she herself had blood on her hands?

Tomorrow she'd have to fight till death… She'd have to kill her opponent with a samurai sword. So far she had been able to write her deeds off as acts of self-preservation, but tomorrow… even if her opponent surrendered, she'd have to kill him. Execute him.

Eva didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

… … …

Neither did Chance. He was tired and every bone in his body seemed to hurt.

Staring at the ceiling, he wondered if what they were doing was right. They were preventing Eva from becoming a murderer, yes, but only technically. In her mind she had already crossed the threshold, had already decided to kill. I didn't really matter that she hadn't really done any harm so far. She had actively decided to do harm, _that _was the crucial point.

Was she maybe already lost? Were all their efforts to save her in vain?


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

The final round of the tournament was going to take place in the heart of the temple, its inner yard where Chance and Guerrero so many years ago had gathered with the others for washing, meditation, exercise… four thirty in the morning, ice-cold water on their naked bodies… in hindsight Chance always remembered that particular ritual with a nostalgic smile.

Now the yard was going to become a battleground.

Eva studied her opponent with watchful eyes and great inner tension as he entered the marked out fighting area. On the one hand she was trying to assess his skills, his strengths and weaknesses. Although she had watched all tournament rounds she had no idea what her opponent was capable of because she had no idea who it was.

Tournament rules required all participants to wear either black or white karate style combat dresses, gloves and also matching masks. Even identifying the female fighters had been hard; any further distinguishing had been made impossible. The dresses, masks and gloves covered all individual features very successfully. Pity they were made of such thin fabric… a stronger material would have at least kept the snakes away.

All technical and strategic considerations aside, she was also contemplating the fact that her opponent was a human being. A living, breathing individual with feelings, ideas, hopes, dreams… and a family out there somewhere who would grieve him, should Eva succeed. Maybe even children. His black robe slightly rustled in the light breeze coming in with the slightly falling temperatures of the night drawing nigh. The moonlight reflected on the smooth surface of his black mask. Even the color of his eyes was indiscernible.

On the other hand, to get this far, to make it to the final round, that human being with feelings and all must have killed, must have pushed the first opponent into a lake full of crocodiles, the second down an abyss, the third into a pit full of snakes. It was impossible to determine for which group he was fighting, the terrorists, the drug cartel or maybe he even was another idealist like Eva herself… be that as it may, one thing was absolutely certain: If not already prior to the tournament, the man in front of her had definitely become a murderer in the course of it.

After having gotten this far and already having spilt blood, he would surely not hesitate to kill again. Eva hated to think like that, but the blunt truth was that mercy was out of the question here. She only had two options: Either to kill or to get killed. There was no other way. The rules were unambiguous regarding this particular issue: The tournament had to end with the death of one of the two final competitors.

The sun was setting over the tree tops of the rainforest. The sounds of the night set in… the high buzzing of the various insects, the calls of the nocturnal birds. Every now and then an angry growl from a clouded leopard echoed through the darkness… Torches were lit all along the walls of the yard. A couple of musicians gathered on the steps that led to the building with the tower where Ryuu had died so many years ago. Slowly they started beating their drums, creating a low rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. Both Eva and her opponent drew their swords.

… … …

"Damn, I can hardly see a thing!" Winston squinted at the monitor, then gave its side a light slap. Well, "light" by his standards. The screen briefly turned to snow.

"Dude! That's not your ten years plus old tube television! You think slapping improves visual quality? Wanna try out first hand?" Almost gently Guerrero adjusted the monitor's settings. Due to the poor lightning of the battleground there was not much he could do, though. At least they had an additional audio feed.

"I can't wait till this is over", Ames murmured with clenched teeth. Chance's plan was good, but his plans had a tendency to take on a life of their own. Aside from that Eva Khan was no lightweight. A fighter by nature she'd surely not simply play along. Especially since she was convinced that her life was on the line.

No matter how hard Ames tried, she had a bad feeling about all of this and she could tell from the faces of the others that she wasn't the only one.

Somewhere in the distance a clouded leopard hissed at an enemy.

… … …

Eva had inherited her sword from her father. Just like most classical katanas that were built for real fights, not show, the hilt was made of wood, wrapped into straps of silk and shagreen leather. Only the metal sword shell was slightly decorated with carnelian inlays. After the fight on the plank above the snake pit Eva couldn't help but think that that the gemstones resembled green mamba eyes. The curved pattern engraved into the shell didn't help either.

As a little girl she had studied the sword, it shiny blade and its intricate ornaments with deep fascination. All through the years she had regarded it as her most precious possession, the one thing that even in her darkest hours connected her with his father, his strength, the lessons she had learned from him. Now suddenly all she could think about were the snakes crawling right by her hands.

Her opponent's katana was not meant for show either, so much she could tell even from the distance. Reflections of the flickering flames were dancing on his blade as he slightly raised it and turned it sideways in classical starting position.

Eva advanced on him.

Of course Chance noticed the fierce determination with which she moved, the graceful flow of her steps, but also the tension in her shoulders. She was nervous. Nervous people make mistakes. The way she held her sword, for example – it was not completely in balance. If he parried her first blow with a slightly adjusted angle he would be able to carry out their plan in no time.

But would their plan really result in the desired outcome? Would she really see…? Or was the lesson not strong enough?

Eva attacked. Their blades collided.


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Ames is going to kill me for this", Chance thought and parried Eva's blow.

… … …

"What is it?", Ilsa asked Guerrero.

Guerrero didn't bother to look up from the monitor. He merely arched his eyebrows. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"The shadow that passed over your face. Just for a tiny second. Don't tell me it wasn't there. I saw it! Tell me what the matter is!" Ilsa was all but hissing.

"You should watch the fight, not me", Guerrero muttered, his eyes not leaving the screen.

"I know next to nothing about samurai sword fights, but I know you. Something you saw made you concerned. What was it?" Trust Ilsa to not give up when she had gotten an idea firmly into her head.

Her insistence was contagious. Winston turned and focused his attention on Guerrero, too.

"She's right. There's something about the way the corners of your eyes twitch. Barely recognizable behind the glasses, but it's there."

"_You _need glasses, dude." Guerrero was still staring at the monitor, studying every move of the fighters. The grayish light of the monitor deepened the scars on his face and made his skin look pale. Or had it really lost color in the past sixty seconds since the fight had started? It was impossible to tell.

Ilsa and Winston exchanged glances. Something wasn't right and Guerrero didn't want to talk about it.

Not a good sign. Not good at all.

"You would tell me if Chance was up to something, wouldn't you?", Ames asked, her eyes just as glued to the screen as Guerrero's. Her voice was small and quivered. She had a goddamn bad feeling about this whole thing.

Ilsa put a hand on Guerrero's shoulder. Only a very light touch, with Guerrero you always had to be careful not to trigger any semi-automatic defense mechanisms. When she could be sure he wouldn't retaliate, she gently squeezed it.

Guerrero nodded, half in resignation, half in relief. He was a man who kept many things to himself, but this was too much. He needed to share.

"The first blow. If Chance had slightly adjusted the angle of his blade, he could have disarmed Eva. The way she had her shoulders tensed up… she wouldn't have been able to compensate the impact. It would have at least destabilized her grip, if not sent the whole sword flying. She's nervous. He could have made use of that."

"But he didn't…" Ames' voice sounded even shakier than a minute before. She had known it! This whole trip down memory lane, the temple thing, the tattoos… Chance had started dwelling on stuff and when Chance dwelt, things had a tendency to spin out of control. Just ask Winston about an incident with a bank, a bomb and an ashram…

"Maybe he didn't notice", Ilsa suggested, shrugging her shoulders and making a helpless gesture with her hands.

Winston shook his head. "He noticed alright."

"But why?" Ilsa couldn't believe it. "The plan was that he beats Eva, then has mercy on her and refrains from killing her. This way he demonstrates to her that the organizers of the tournament can't and won't do anything against the decision because it's up to the rightful leader of the temple to set the rules. True leaders don't follow through with something just because somebody else says so, they listen to what their heart tells them. And their heart should always tell them to spill as little blood as possible. That was the message we wanted to get across. Why would he want to change that?"

Ames gasped. So did Winston.

Thanks to her rant Ilsa hadn't seen the complete maneuver, only the end part: Eva moved forward, Chance basically stepped into the blow, the blade barely missed his right shoulder… no! Apparently she had cut through the fabric of the cloth covering Chance's upper arm. Had she injured him? It was so damn hard to make out any details on the monitor!

He didn't seem to be hindered in his movements, but...

"Let me guess, he could have easily avoided that, right?", Winston asked Guerrero.

Guerrero merely nodded.

Winston made a fist and hit the nearest wall. "He's going to let her win! That goddamn fool!"

"He's going to let her win, with the idea to tear down his mask at the last minute so that she realizes whom she almost decapitated… to teach her that once you went down the killing road, nobody will be safe… you're bound to hurt those close to you", Ilsa whispered, almost absentmindedly.

Winston could only nod in agreement. Yes, this sounded exactly like Chance…

Ames was crying by now… the risk he was taking… if Eva delivered the deadly blow before he had a chance to reveal himself…

The fight was reaching the three minute mark now. Despite what they showed on TV, three minutes of sword fighting, that was incredibly long and extremely exhausting. The audio feed indicated that both Chance's and Eva's breathing had grown significantly louder within the last minute. So had the drums. The end was drawing nigh.

Suddenly Eva delivered a kick to the back of Chance's right knee. Chance lost his balance. Another kick to his elbow disarmed him of his sword. He fell to his knees.

The drums stopped beating.

Eva quickly pushed the fallen sword out of her opponent's reach. Then she froze.

She had made it. Her opponent was beaten. Without his weapon there was no way he could defend himself. He seemed to be terribly exhausted. Eva felt close to falling unconscious herself. Her whole body was shaking. Everything in her seemed to be screaming for rest… for peace…

Would she even be able to deliver the stroke that would separate his head from his shoulders? She had to do it in one go, everything else would cause her opponent incredible pain. And she had to do it now; every second she hesitated was a second more torture for him. Making somebody wait for his own death, fully conscious, was one of the worst things one could do to another person.

Even the rainforest seemed to have fallen silent in horrified anticipation.

"What is he waiting for? What the hell is he waiting for?", Ames screamed at the monitor. "He's got all the time to remove the goddamn mask, WHAT IS HE WAITING FOR?"

They all couldn't do anything but stare at the image on the screen: Chance kneeling in front of Eva.

Eva stepped closer and raised her sword.

The monitor went blank. Blackout. No power.

The audio feed was still on.

They heard a blade swish through the air.


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

The blade stopped a hair's breadth from Chance's carotid artery. Chance could feel it press against his skin through the cloth of his hood.

"I'm not going to do this", Eva whispered between labored gasps of breath. "I'm not going to do this."

She removed the blade from Chance's neck and let her sword sink to the ground. "Do you hear me?", she yelled into the direction where she assumed the organizers of the tournament were sitting.

"I'm not going to do this! By beating him I rightfully claimed leadership of the Temple and my first decision is to let him live!"

For a moment deafening silence seemed to engulf everything. A clouded leopard roared in the distance. The sound felt like a clap of thunder to Eva's ears – electric, angry, wild.

Slowly, very slowly, the organizers got up, becoming visible in the semi-darkness. Tall figures, thin figures, short and hunched ones. One after another they got to their feet… and started applauding.

"The true leader has just revealed herself!", one of them exclaimed with a hoarse voice. The others followed, with similar praise. Eva, however, turned away from them and focused her attention on her still kneeling opponent again. She extended her hand. "You fought well. Now get up and we'll talk."

To her utter surprise, the man didn't take her hand. Instead he reached for the cut in the cloth covering his upper arm and widened it a bit so that she could see his skin.

A dragon tattoo.

A very familiar dragon tattoo.

Years ago in Brussels, when she had still been with Hugh Prentiss, picking the fighters for him, she had encountered a mysterious man… Grant Johnson. She had known from the start he wasn't a normal fighter. The second she had laid eyes on the tattoo that looked so similar to the Temple's emblem that her father had shown her many times she had known he hadn't simply turned up to win the Christof.

In the end he had helped her break free from Prentiss, find out the truth about her father's death and, as an additional bonus, had given her a very enchanted night to remember.

He had saved her life.

Oh good lord, she almost killed Grant Johnson! Eva gasped in horror.

Chance got to his feet, removed his mask and gave her that lopsided smile she remembered so well.

Yes, from all he could tell, the lesson had sunk in.

… … …

"I think I heard something outside", Ilsa remarked, letting the ice-cubes in her scotch on the rocks rattle against the glass of her tumbler.

"Yeah, he's approaching", Winston confirmed, glancing at the monitor that showed them the gangway area of the jet.

Ames harrumphed, folding her arms across her chest.

Guerrero got up and headed towards the restroom in the back of the plane.

A second later the door swished open and Chance climbed in, back in casual clothes – jeans, t-shirt, sunglasses.

"I guess letting me tramp to the airfield instead of picking me up after the tournament was intended as some kind of punishment for my slight change of plan during the last round?" He smiled innocently at his team, showing his dimple and tilting his head.

Nobody smiled back.

"Okay, I know it _looked_ dangerous, but…"

The cold metal of an exquisitely sharp samurai sword pressing against the unprotected skin of his neck stopped him mid-sentence.

"You're going to tell us some bullshit about how you would've rolled over and out of reach at the last minute, dude?" Guerrero's hand around the hilt of his sword didn't quiver at all. His stance was firm and completely balanced.

"You don't seriously think I would've risked…" Chance made his voice sound relaxed and casual, but he didn't dare move. Guerrero was a master at inflicting pain without even remotely endangering his victim's life. The fact that they were friends didn't mean he would refrain from teaching him a lesson. Chance remembered his broken wrist only too well.

"Demonstrate it, dude. Show us how you would have rolled over at the last minute. Get down on your knees, I'll deliver the blow, let's see who is faster…"

Guerrero was seriously pissed. And from the fact that neither Winston nor Ilsa or Ames objected to his actions, it was easy to deduce that they were pissed as well.

"You've got a son", Guerrero hissed through clenched teeth.

"What were we supposed to tell Ash, had this gone wrong?", Winston added. "That a Katherine-moment was more important to his father than staying safe for his child?"

Chance pressed his lips together and all boyish easy-go-luckiness vanished from his face.

"Katherine-moment?", he echoed.

White hot anger shot through Ames as she heard the name. Katherine! That goddamn ghost that had almost ruined everything back in Scotland and had made him play hard to get for years!

"The moment back in the safe house when you decided, all by yourself, without anyone influencing you, that you wouldn't kill her", Winston explained. "A Katherine-moment. You wanted Eva to experience the same so she wouldn't eventually cross the line after all."

Chance shook his head, very carefully so he didn't accidentally cut himself with Guerrero's sword.

"Not a _Katherine_-moment…", he mumbled.

Now he had everyone's attention.

Chance, however, fell silent. He didn't say any additional word. All they could see was his Adam's apple working up and down, giving away how much in turmoil he actually was.

"Dude…", Guerrero finally said, almost gently.

"I wanted to give her a _Guerrero_-moment…"

Guerrero knew immediately what Chance meant. He just would have never expected him to voice it somehow.

The rest was equally stunned. This was CHANCE, talking about his FEELINGS.

"You could have beaten me in the safe house. When we fought. But you didn't. You gave yourself up to me, put your life in my hands. My finger was on the trigger… and then I suddenly realized what I was doing… before Katherine interfered. That's when the decision was made: No more killing."

Deep silence filled the room. Everyone was speechless. These were more words regarding his feelings than Chance had uttered in the last few years combined. He couldn't have proven more forcefully how much he trusted them.

"Grab a shower, bro", Guerrero said softly. "And maybe Ames can help you with the bruises and stuff."

… … …

After Ilsa's old jet had gone up in flames in South America thanks to Hector Lopez, she had bought a newer model with certain amenities. Among them a small bathroom with a real shower.

Ames followed Chance into the facility. Her face betrayed the storm of emotions that was raging inside of her. On the one hand Chance had just, for the first time since she knew him, totally opened up… but to _the team_… what about HER?

"It's not only because of Ash why I shouldn't have pulled that stunt", Chance said just then, facing the shower stall. "He's got top priority. But you're second, right behind him. Because of you I shouldn't even have thought about that shit either."

Ames watched his quivering shoulders and something melted inside of her. She softly touched his shoulder, turned him around and brushed a kiss against his lips.

"I can live with that."

… … …

As the jet finally started, Ilsa lightly smacked Guerrero's chest. "Now tell me how in the world you managed to hide a giant samurai sword in my plane without me noticing."


	36. opening hours

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ opening hours ~**_

"Mom, seriously, I need those jeans…", Ash pleaded.

It was rather early in the morning, shortly past nine. The sky looked a bit gray, but no rain so far and temperature in the high fifties. School was closed for the day thanks to some sort of teacher's conference and Philippa had decided to grab the opportunity and make a long overdue dentist appointment for Ash.

Parking was a catastrophe in this area and thus they had used public transport. In hindsight not the best of all decision since the bus had stopped a block away from the doctor's office, directly in front of a shop window that had Ash's newest heart's desire on display. Since the appointment was scheduled for 9.45 Ash still had plenty of time to chip away at her firm decision not to spend a rather obscene amount of money on a piece of black cloth.

"You can need water, food… shelter… medical equipment… but _needing_ jeans?" Philippa gave her son a long, hard look with eyebrows raised in consternated astonishment. The corner of her mouth was slightly twitching, though.

"That's a really unfair line of argumentation", he harrumphed.

"At almost two hundred dollars for a single pair of trousers I can be as unfair as I want", she smiled. "And aside from that I'd say Helen is already enough impressed by you without the newest model accentuating your backside."

"MOM!" The expression on Ash's face was one of utter horror. His mother! Commenting on his ass! His MOTHER!

"Oh come on, you were willing to shed clothes right in the middle of your Dad's office, with all the surveillance cams running, but an innocent remark of mine makes you uncomfortable?"

Ash let his shoulders sag in desperation. "This is going to haunt me forever, isn't it?"

"Only for the next ten years or so", Philippa chuckled. "You have to admit it wasn't exactly clever, the whole thing… in the office… you knew about the security system…"

"Dad already sat down with me for a really awkward two hours, mom… No need to hit the replay button. I've learned my lesson."

Philippa couldn't help but think how adorable her son looked when trying to convince somebody he was absolutely serious about something.

"I wasn't talking about you planning to have sex. I was talking about you letting your emotions override everything else. You knew about the cameras but you didn't care. _That_ was the really foolish part."

Ash made a sound between a hiss and a horrified squeak. "MOM!"

"Now come on, you know you didn't grow in a cabbage patch. And I know you'll be a young man soon. Sex will be part of that. I wish you'd wait a little longer… there's only one first time and fifteen is, in my humble opinion, way too young to cross that particular line… one day you might look back in regret that you rushed things…" Philippa paused, then shrugged. "On the other hand I do see that in the end there's no stopping a teenage storm of hormones. But never let your guard down like that again. Never. You've got to keep part of your mind sober, no matter what. And now let's stop here, I'll shift some money around and we'll get you those jeans after the appointment." Philippa nodded at the glass door of a bank that was just opening for the day.

"Really?" Ash gave her that brilliant million watt smile that was one of his father's trademarks.

Philippa shook her head in amazement.

"What?", her son asked, confused.

"Nothing. You look so much like your dad, that's all."

"And what did I inherit from you?"

Huh. Now that question had come like a bolt out of the blue. Philippa blinked in utter surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You always say stuff like "you're really your father's son" or "you truly are a chip off the old block". But what did I inherit from you?" Suddenly Ash's eyes had taken on a piercing quality… his blue eyes, studying her, his gray eyed, dark brown haired mother, from behind the blond fringes of his bangs.

"Luckily not terribly much", Philippa laughed, way too loud even to her own ears, and pushed the door to the bank open. "Now let's get some cash or your ass will end up overpriced-jeans-less after all."

The look on his face told her he knew she had evaded his question. He wasn't buying her hedging anymore. Philippa took a deep breath. The moment of truth both she and Chance dreaded so much was getting closer, inevitably. They would have to tell him. Soon.

Her stomach a solid block of ice, she followed Ash inside.

… … …

Winston poured himself another cup of coffee. Ilsa's Italy-imported high end macchina del caffè really produced good stuff.

Technically there was no need for him to watch over the sleeping team while in the air, but it felt good, having all of them in one safe place, unhurt and not endangered for a change. Ames and Chance were curled up in one corner (those extra-wide seats that Ilsa had had custom-made were definitely worth their money) , Guerrero and Ilsa right in front of him.

Guerrero, the old bastard, had fought dozing off to the last drop, but eventually his eyes had closed while staring at his computer screen. Ilsa had gently taken his glasses away and pulled him into her arms. Now he was snoring slightly, the most dangerous man in Northern California.

They were still eight hours away from San Francisco. Winston settled back into his seat with his newspaper.

The letters on the paper swam a little. He was tired himself, despite the coffee. Maybe he should close his eyes for a minute, too?

Just then a sudden loud buzzing sound from Guerrero's computer made him jump. "What the…?"

"Message via satellite coming in", Guerrero muttered, groping around for his glasses.

"I thought you were offline since this internet inflight thing can be hacked too easily?", Chance mumbled from his seat, blinking awake.

"I've linked the number reserved for emergencies with a satellite…", Guerrero replied, frowning. "It's a message from Isamu." He activated the audio feed.

_Hey, it's me, Isu… I know this is for emergencies only, and this probably isn't one, but… the thing is, Ash and I wanted to spar a bit right after his appointment at the dentist, but he isn't at the office and I can't reach him on his cell either. He's already an hour too late and I was just wondering if maybe the dentist found something or whatever… thanks…_

"Philippa said something about Ash's jaw needing an x-ray to check its growth… it aches every now and then. I'll call the doctor's office." Chance grabbed the satellite phone.

Five minutes later they knew Ash and Philippa had never shown up at the dentist's.

Another five minutes later Guerrero had located Ash's and Philippa's cell phones inside a bank a block away from the doctor.

A bank that had been the site of a robbery gone wrong about two hours ago and was now under siege by the police while inside the robbers had turned into hostage takers.

Still eight hours to go till San Francisco.


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Everything happened so extremely fast. One moment Ash was telling his mother how very impractical and unreasonable it was to insist on always paying in cash, the next he was lying face down on the marble tiles of the bank's entrance hall.

"Don't worry, normal heists are a grab-and-run thing, they'll be in and out in less than five minutes", Philippa, lying right next to her son, whispered. "Just stay calm, breathe even, everything will be alright."

BAM!

One of the masked robbers had shot at the ceiling, hit the overhead lighting and made it go out with a hiss. A shower of broken glass came raining down on them. One woman cried out in terror. A collective shiver ran through the group of hostages.

_Using fear to keep the people in check, _Ash thought. _Makes sense. _What was strange, though, was the fact that the robbers were heavily armed, with assault rifles and automatic small arms. That was almost overkill, and a lot of ballast for a grab-and-run thing.

"Pat them down!", the apparent leader told one of his three minions. The underlings all wore hamster masks, he wore a raccoon mask. Dark blond hair was sticking out at the sides.

Ash watched them from the corners of his eyes, making sure not to turn his head and thus raise suspicion. He was afraid, yes, but his mother was right, heists were speed-oriented, unless someone blundered and tried to be a hero this nightmare would be over soon. That was probably why they were frisking them; they wanted to be sure nobody with a permit to carry a concealed weapon would try his hands at heroism and get in the way.

He could almost hear his father inside his head: _Remaining level-headed has top priority. Observe before you act. Know your enemy. Don't blindly flail around. Often playing along is the best strategy to keep everyone safe. Keep your ego in check. Humiliation is survivable, a bullet in your brain isn't. _They had practiced tai chi together… meditation exercises, too. Back then Ash had found them boring… now he saw what they were good for.

The robber was now patting his mother down. He'd be next. Ash took a deep breath and prepared himself for a stranger's hands on his body. He hated the thought of having to tolerate the thug's touch. Inside of him a small flame flared up. Somebody was going to invade his personal territory, against his will… _Keep your ego in check._

"Now what do we have here?"

The robber's surprised yell startled Ash from his thoughts. He looked up and saw the man standing over his mother, who was lying face down just like him. The back of her blouse had been rucked up, revealing part of her bare back… and a holster.

A holster for a gun. A .45 automatic, to be precise. The thug was holding it in his hand, showing it to the leader.

"Lady, that's a badass gun!" He tucked it away behind the waistband of his pants and continued patting Philippa down. When he reached her right ankle he stopped again, made a tsk-tsk sound, rucked up the pant leg, too, and produced a knife.

"Boss!"

His military boots resounding heavily on the marble floor, the leader came walking over to them.

"What is this about?", he snarled at Philippa, weighing the knife in his hands, pointing his gun at the back of her head.

"Second amendment", she replied, her voice muffled from still having to face the floor. "Just executing my constitutional rights, that's all. I like to be prepared."

Not an uncommon attitude…

"Keep an eye on her", the leader told his minion and returned to the center of the room.

After carefully checking Philippa's shoes, the thug moved on to Ash, patted him down. Ash hardly noticed. His thoughts were racing. His mother had a _gun_? And not just some "fits perfectly in your purse with pretty rosewood grips" – crap. A .45 meant business. His dad carried one. And Guerrero. Winston. His grandfather.

What was even more upsetting, though, was the knife. The thing the thug had found attached to her ankle was no Swiss Army knife that came with screwdrivers and can openers. It was a large combat knife, at least nine inches all in all, the blade 4 ½, possibly more.

Guerrero had sat him and Isamu down about a year ago and showed them his collection of knives. He had demonstrated how easily even the smaller ones could cut through things. Using oranges as substitutes for human flesh, he had made it very clear that knives, just like firearms, were not for fooling around. "Throw a knife into the game and somebody is bound to get hurt", he had told them. "One stab can be enough to kill. You don't want to see anyone bleed to death, trust me."

Why in the world was his mother carrying such a dangerous weapon?

He tried to get a glimpse of her face, but she was stoically looking at the marble tiles.

… … …

Outside police sirens could be heard.

Police sirens?

Still not daring to look at her son, Philippa strained her ears.

Oh no… tires screeched, right in front of the building.

She closed her eyes.

Things had just gotten a lot more complicated, in more than one way.

… … …

Joubert had just finished reducing the clothes he had worn during his last job to ashes in his fireplace when his cell signaled. It was a special ringtone, reserved for one person and one person only.

Frowning, he took the call. Junior never made social calls. When his number appeared on the display, something was up.

Junior's message was short. He didn't have much information yet. But it was enough to make him sit down.

No. This couldn't be true. Not Ash.

Grabbing a crystal tumbler from his liquor cabinet, he smashed it against the wall.

Whoever was responsible for that was going to pay.

… … …

There were very few pleasures Innokentij allowed himself to indulge in. Reading the newspaper while having a good, strong cup of English Breakfast tea was one of them.

One of the first lessons every new recruit learned was to NEVER disturb the boss' teatime unless it was REALLY important. Contraventions could result in severe repercussions.

So when Lee, one of his most loyal soldiers, entered the room only seconds after he had taken his first sip of tea, Innokentij knew he wasn't going to talk about the weather.

"News from Devo", Lee said and placed a note on Innokentij's table. Then he quickly disappeared.

Devo, that was the eye he had put on the boy.

Innokentij read the note.

The next thing Lee heard was the crashing of a porcelain tea set.

A second later his boss was yelling to get him a flight to San Francisco.


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

What the hell had the police been thinking? Philippa couldn't believe it. Why in the world were they coming to the rescue like some goddamn cavalry regiment, blaring their sirens so that even the dumbest robber knew walking out the front door was a bad idea. If the driver of their getaway car was any good, he, well, had gotten away by now.

Aside from that the robbers were behaving oddly.

They were a good crew, complementing each other almost perfectly. The way they communicated via sign language, subtle, barely perceptible signals… it spoke of military or paramilitary training. And very meticulous preparation.

She had expected them to rush straight for the cash outside the vault. Grab-and-run, no fooling around with the steel-reinforced door or lengthy discussions with the manager about how he couldn't open the thing on his own, needed an additional key that only the director himself had bla bla...

But none of that.

Cash seemed to be the last thing on the mind of the thugs. They just stood around, watched them… they took turns, while two hamsters were on sentinel duty, the third rested in a corner… with food and drink from a bag they had brought with them.

The food, more than anything else, worried Philippa deeply. It was almost as if they, from the very beginning, had been planning to get stuck in here.

In addition to that the leader's body language was strange. He sometimes went rigid, then retreated into a corner outside their view. Only when he touched his ear Philippa realized that he was wearing some sort of ear piece.

He was in contact with someone outside.

Not a good sign. Not at all.

She shouldn't have brought Ash in here. Into a bank! She should have known it was a risk. But in the past few years she had gotten more and more careless… with his father, grandfather and Guerrero keeping an eye on Ash, she had gradually allowed herself to relax a little, especially since the boy was getting older and didn't accept rules just like that anymore.

In his younger years she had been able to keep him in hotel kitchens all day and he never rebelled. But now? In the past year Ash had proven more than once that he was not willing to simply play along anymore.

Despite the situation, Philippa's mind went back to the conversation they had had this morning, only seconds before they had entered the goddamn bank.

_What did I inherit from you?_

They needed to tell him the truth. Especially now, that he had seen the weapons she was carrying around. He'd never let go of that. It was time to end all those lies.

She slowly turned her head and looked at her son. He was doing so well, breathing calmly, attentive but not panicking. She could see, should anything happen that required quick reaction, he'd be able to jump up, roll over, take cover within milliseconds. His father and his lot had taught him well.

Nevertheless he looked incredibly vulnerable. Ice-hockey training, sparring, all that martial arts stuff had provided him with some serious bulk, his shoulders had become visibly broader in the past two years, but still… underneath all that extra muscle he was just a fifteen year old boy.

Her little boy.

Angry grumbling from the leader brought her back to the harsh reality of their present situation. She needed to focus. Something had happened and she had missed it because she had dwelt on currently irrelevant questions.

_Concentrate, Philippa_, she chided herself. _What did you tell Ash about always having to keep at least a part of his mind sober? Maybe you should listen to your own advice once in a while. _

"Search the lockers", the leader told hamster one and two. "We'll keep an eye on the hostages." With a single beckoning movement he called hamster three away from the corner where he was resting and having a snack.

Hamster number three's mask was slightly moving up and down when he took position in the middle of the room. Philippa concluded he was still chewing on the last piece of his sandwich… the first unprofessional move since they had entered the bank…. It indicated a sudden change of plans. But why?

What was even more upsetting was the fact that they did not fool around with the manager at all. They simply let him lie on the ground with the other hostages, as if his key to the vault didn't matter at all.

A few seconds after the leader had given out the command to search the lockers, they could feel the floor slightly rumble… They had opened the vault! Without explosives or the manager's assistance.

Hell, what was this about?

… … …

Snitches are, in a lot of ways, like prairie dogs. Yes, most people like to compare them to rats, but actually watchfulness and a highly developed survival instinct characterize their daily routine. Sneakiness is only ranked third place.

One major key to staying alive was keeping an eye on what the other snitches did. Like prairie dogs, who are always not only on the lookout for enemies but also for changes in their direct environment; when one prairie dog starts running, the others are very likely to follow because chances are he spotted some terrifying, prairie dog eating monster approaching.

Better flight than fight is another attitude snitches share with prairie dogs.

So when Victor Joubert started asking around for information on the Castro district robbery turned hostage taking about two hours after it had started, it sent a ripple of terror through the snitch community. When Guerrero – yes, THE Guerrero – ordered his people to collect info, too, that ripple turned into an earthquake. And when, in addition to these two snitch eating monsters, Innokentij Krektovic, the leader of горизонт, also began asking questions it was Armageddon.

They fled the city in droves.

At least those who managed to flee, that is.


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"With all due respect, Mrs. Pucci, I truly appreciate your concern, but trust me, I'm in direct contact with the chief of police and all relevant personnel on the spot…" Beads of sweat appeared on the mayor's forehead. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his shirt.

"It is incredibly touching that you show such deep concern about those unfortunate citizens of San Francisco that became hostages during the ill-fated robbery this morning…" He listened intently for a moment, then took a deep breath, apparently trying to build up enough strength to sound commanding and mayor-like.

"I am terribly sorry Mrs. Pucci, but at this point I cannot give any definite explanation why police cars with sirens and flashing lights were sent to the building. Discussing possible alternatives to the strategy that was chosen by SFPD officials should wait until the situation is actually over and all hostages are back home safe and sound, wouldn't you agree?" The mayor tried to inhale deeply, but the very insisting British accented voice on the other end of the line stopped him half-way through. "It appears that that particular strategy turned the robbery into a hostage taking, yes…", he conceded. Immediately afterwards he was forced to hold the receiver a little away from his ear. It took him a while until he could continue.

"I am convinced, though, that the officers made a conscious decision on the grounds of a very well thought out plan that puts the welfare of the hostages first." He had to remove the receiver even farther from his ear. New beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"By no means, Mrs. Pucci, can I share details of an ongoing police operation with you." In the back of his mind the mayor wondered what would happen if he suffered a heart attack, right here, right now. They'd have to reanimate him, call an ambulance for him, sent him to the ER. He'd probably have to undergo surgery the same day and later would spend a couple of days, maybe a week in intensive care. His life would be at risk and afterwards he'd have to adhere to strict rules regarding eating, sportive activities, alcohol, tobacco etc. for the rest of his life.

Given the overall situation, with that British she-devil coming down on him hard on top of everything else, a very tempting alternative…

"As much as I value your generous offer, Mrs. Pucci, at this point I really don't see any need to involve an FBI team specializing in hostage negotiation. I'm also very impressed by your contacts to the Pentagon, but no, you don't need to fly in an anti-terrorist unit either."

Muttering nonsense about an upcoming meeting with the chief of police regarding the situation, he quickly hung up, cutting Ilsa off mid-sentence, ruing the day he had given her his direct dial number.

"Ilsa Pucci, world-famous billionaire and philanthropist has a vital interest that my little demonstration ends well for the lab rats? Interesting…" The coarse man lounging in the mayor's visitor's chair lazily checked his smartphone. "And apparently she's not the only one… "

He raised an eyebrow, reread the information on the screen, pondered the issue for a moment and then contacted Walter. "Small change of plans", he said. "Search the lockers in the vault. Check if you find anything interesting."

He cut the connection and turned his attention to the mayor again.

"So, did you make up your mind in the meantime?", he asked, smirking.

… … …

"Chance, sit down." Winston's voice was just as tense as the overall atmosphere on the plane. "The jet won't fly any faster, no matter how much you pace it up and down."

Guerrero put a hand on Winston's arm and basically shushed him. "Dude's got nothing to do. Pacing is the only thing that keeps him from losing his mind." Then he returned his attention to the person on the other end of the line again. "Have you tried the Romanian Rat? Yank his gold chain a little. He doesn't cave easily, but he usually knows what's going on in his district… Yeah, that's cool with me. If things go wrong I'll take care of the body."

Ilsa, busy with activating (read: bribing) a couple of contacts of her own, decided better not to listen too closely.

Right after Chance had put down the phone and started pacing, Winston had called a couple of his police buddies and made sure they'd keep them in the loop regarding any new developments inside and outside the bank. He had also sent messages to pretty much everyone who owed them a favor. If there was even the remotest chance that someone could help, he was notified.

Of course Ames had put out feelers to old acquaintances, too. Someone had to know something about the identity of the robbers. So far they'd come up with nothing, but the day was still young. Guerrero was just in the process of giving someone instructions regarding certain parameters when using a car battery.

"What about eyes in the bank?", Chance asked Winston, still pacing. He hadn't even heard his friend trying to convince him to sit down.

Winston shook his head. "Robbers disabled the cameras."

Chance cursed. "Shot them?"

"No, deactivated them."

"That's not a normal grab-and-run-thing." Chance started pacing faster.

Guerrero looked up from the display of his notebook and covered the satellite phone receiver for a moment. Danger of getting hacked or not, he had set up an inflight internet connection, otherwise it would have been impossible to keep an ear to the ground. "We're not the only ones asking questions", he remarked, frowning, then continued explaining the interdependency between sweat and electricity to the person on the other end of the line.

Oh how he hated having to rely on assistants. And what an idiotic timing for the Plumber to be on vacation.

… … …

In the meantime Innokentij had already crossed the delicate line between "painful" and "deadly" electric shocks, but not before forcing the one piece of information from the unfortunate snitch that he had wanted so badly, he would have even been willing to pay for it, had there been no other way: The name of the person behind the robbery.

Well, now he knew it.

And it made him sick to his stomach.

Brax.

Of all people.

B. Brax.


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

As a child Chance had experienced numerous moments of utter helplessness. Literally overpowered and outmuscled by the adults of the violent world he had been born into, he found himself on the receiving end of other people's wrath and cruelty multiple times.

As a teenager, after an incident that left scars he could still detect on his body whenever he took a shower, he swore to himself never to become that defenseless and at somebody's mercy ever again. He started lashing out at his tormentors and bucked every restraint, both literally and figuratively, that people attempted to put on him.

That was pretty much the state the Old Man found him in. Joubert treated him like a rough diamond – he taught him his trade, let him in on all the secrets that distinguish a thug with a gun from a real pro… and he, step by step, changed his attitude towards getting caught and apprehended.

While Junior in the very beginning employed a rather Bonnie-and-Clyde-like attitude that preferred death to captivity, the Old Man taught him to accept restrictive conditions for the time being and proactively use the period of forced immobility for planning ahead and making the most of the situation.

"Sometimes getting caught is the best thing that can happen to you", he told him. "Unless your attackers are explicitly out to kill you, it can be the strategically best thing to allow capture. Captives are usually brought to the center of activity – what better place to start a retaliation campaign from?" Chance had pretty much followed that advice when Guerrero had been framed for murder in Alabama.

"Not to mention the fact that your target more often than not can be found there, too." They had gotten to Ilsa's friend, Susan Connors, that way when she had been caught in the clutches of Miguel Cervantes.

"You can also divert your attackers' attention by giving yourself up – for example from a partner who can sneak away unseen and get help." He had used that strategy during the fiasco at Henry Claypool's house, to protect Ilsa.

Something inside of Chance still protested every time he dropped his weapon, turned around and let himself be tied up, be it by law enforcement, rebel troops or triple frontier thugs. But he had learned to ignore that little voice, had learned controlling the instincts that told him to fight to the last breath and accept momentary helplessness, knowing that he would somehow find a way out of this mess.

The day his son became hostage in the course of a bank robbery gone wrong, however, the little voice was screaming at him at the top of its lungs. The feeling of utter helplessness seemed to strangle him like noose around his neck.

And there was no escape.

No amount of violence, firepower, aggression or shrewdness could change the fact that he was trapped in an airplane two hours away from San Francisco while his only child was in the hands of extremely oddly behaving, heavily armed hostage takers.

He was more caught than he had ever been in his entire life.

"This is not the time for a guilt trip, bro." Guerrero sat down in front of him after Chance had finally stopped pacing.

"Ash's situation has nothing to do with what you're doing right now or ever did in your past. Wrong place, wrong time, and that's it. A damn coincidence."

Chance looked at his friend and knew he was getting lectured for a reason. Guerrero wasn't the type for unwelcome advice.

"Spit it out already", Chance told him.

"One of the snitches talked. Name came up. B. Brax."

For a moment it seemed to Chance as if the plane was stopping in midair. Then it seemed to suddenly drop several hundred feet, tailspinning towards the ground.

B. Brax. The multiple murderer and notorious criminal they had freed from prison in the course of the ordeal with Emma… in an attempt to save her severely damaged career she had tried to con them… they had seen through her devious scheme, but G. Brax, B.'s big brother, had outmaneuvered them and they had had to let B. run. Afterwards they had shipped Emma off to Canada, where she was hopefully raising her kid in peace…

Thinking about Emma and her child, a baby girl, as Guerrero had informed them a while ago, safe and sound out of harm's way, while his son… Chance's stomach churned with sudden anger and frustration.

"How can you look me in the face and seriously tell me this is not my fault?", he hissed at Guerrero.

"Cut the crap, dude", Guerrero shot back, face a mask of stone. "We don't know yet what Brax is up to, but it's definitely not the money. Don't think it's a good idea to…"

An incoming call via satellite telephone interrupted him. "Junior, we've got to act. B. Brax is behind this." Joubert's gravelly voice, more serious than he had heard him in a long time.

"And for once we're agreeing on something", Guerrero nodded.

"Indeed we do." Ilsa came walking from behind and sat down in the chair next to Chance. "Mr. Joubert, I presume?"

She and the Old Man hardly ever talked. He gave her the creeps.

"Any suggestions, Mrs. Pucci?"

Winston and Ames silently joined the others.

"In my opinion having the bank stormed by an elite military unit specializing in this kind of situations is our only option. The more time we give Brax the more likely he's going to use it to our disadvantage", Ilsa told Joubert.

A hint of a smile flashed over Guerrero's face.

They're flying in right now, but so far their involvement is not cleared by the authorities in San Francisco", Ilsa continued. "I've managed to circumvent the Mayor in the chain of command and am in direct contact with the governor now. Unfortunately the promise of a very generous donation didn't do much to move him in the right direction… but maybe with a little extra pressure…?"

The smile on Guerrero's face grew.

"So you want dirt on him", Joubert concluded. "Not bad, Mrs. Pucci, not bad at all… Call the governor again in fifteen minutes."

Winston and Ames were both staring at Ilsa, open mouthed.

Ilsa gave them a quizzical look.

"We've turned you into a monster", Ames sputtered.

"Take that as a compliment." Chance reached out and patted Ilsa's upper arm. The plan was good… and with Joubert on board, too… Guerrero was right, this was not the time to brood… adrenaline surged through his body.

"Erm… Joubert?" Winston took a deep breath. He hardly ever addressed the Old Man directly. Too many unresolved issues between them.

"I might know a thing or two about the governor that could change his mind in less than fifteen minutes."

Chance looked from one member of his crew to the other, then glanced at the phone… and allowed himself a hopeful thought.

Together they had pulled off the most incredible shit.

They'd get Ash out.


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!", the young woman screamed.

Judging from her outfit she was working for a law firm or some high-end real estate company. It was clearly designed to demonstrate ambition and professionalism, just like her strict yet attractive French pleat of blond hair. She probably used her midday break for a visit to the gym and regularly brushed aside the warnings on the leaflets that came with the various diet pills she consumed instead of lunch.

"I didn't reach anyone! I swear!"

Foolish thing had tried to use her cell phone. Of course the robbers had noticed. Now she was pleading for her life.

Philippa saw Ash stir from the corner of her eye.

Oh no. It was one thing asking him to suffer the humiliation that came with captivity himself… so far he had dealt with that well. His father and grandfather had done a good job training him. Not to mention Guerrero's significant contribution. But when other people were affected, it was a completely different story.

"Don't move!", Philippa hissed at him. She used a special hiss, a sound she had cultivated ever since he was born.

Ash froze and she momentarily relaxed a little. Never underestimate the power of lessons learned in early childhood. On the run from Chance's enemies silencing the child on a moment's notice had been essential for their survival in the first few years after Ash's birth. She had taught him from the very beginning, when she hissed "Be quiet" or "Don't move", she meant it.

Yes, she had often wondered how much damage to her son's psychological development she was causing with these lessons. The question still kept her up at night. Some of the things Ash had done in the past year… the car accident, the shooting of the dog, the badly injured boy… more than once she had asked herself how much of it her fault was.

On the other hand… back when Ash had been merely a year old, Chance's enemies had almost gotten to them. They had chased her and the child deep down into the bowels of the Vienna subway system. In the end she had curled up in a dark corner with him in her trembling arms and just waited, hidden in the darkness, hoping they'd pass them by.

They did pass them by… she could see their legs, their combat boots, only inches away from their hideout. The echoes of their steps in the eerily silent tunnels.

If Ash had screamed or even so much as struggled there…

But he didn't. As small as he was, he obeyed her orders. She had taught him well.

Today, however, that goddamn foolish woman with her ridiculous attempt to act the part of the heroine was seriously endangering that deeply ingrained lesson. The woman's screams had reached a new octave now, she was on her knees, crying, shaking with fear. The robber with the raccoon mask was aiming a gun point blank at her.

Ash stirred again.

Philippa took a deep breath to hiss more forcefully at him…

Too late.

"Leave her alone!", Ash snarled.

For a brief moment Philippa hoped the robber simply hadn't heard him over the noise the idiot woman was making, but then he wheeled around.

"What did you just say?" Raccoon man came stomping towards them.

"Don't pay attention to him, he's just a teenager, you know how they like to mouth off", Philippa hectically interjected, scrambling to her knees, trying to get between her son and the thug. It earned her a painful kick against the shoulder.

Ash was on his feet in no time.

And found himself face to face with a gun, pointing straight at his face.

Now this was a first. He had learned a lot about guns ever since the fiasco with Gus the Rottweiler. Lots of target shooting with different calibers. Of course he had also cleaned weapons. And his father had taught him how to quickly dismantle certain types of weapons, so that they fell into pieces while still in the aggressor's hand. Uncle Baptiste loved that move. However, it was a circus trick, reserved to be used on amateurs.

Raccoon man was definitely no amateur.

Ash had never directly been threatened with a gun. He had never been this close to anyone actually willing to shoot him.

_Put him at ease. Make him underestimate you_, said Guerrero's voice in his head.

_Knowing when to swallow your pride separates the pros from the amateurs, son_, said the Old Man's voice. _You can always make them pay later. _

_Most shooters have a tell; a brief signal that lets you know a decision has been made. Look out for that tell; it might give you the edge that you need to survive,_ said his father's voice.

Ash let his shoulders sag and his lip tremble, giving himself the appearance of a fifteen year old who had just realized he had gotten himself into a deep mess and desperately wanted to go home. He wondered if he maybe should throw up, too, but the robber interrupted him before he could make up his mind.

"That your son?", raccoon man asked his mother.

Philippa nodded.

"Punish him", he told her.

Both Philippa and Ash froze.

"Go ahead, punish him thoroughly, or I'll to it!" Now raccoon man was clearly enjoying himself.

Ash watched his mother press her lips together. A clear sign that she had made up her mind about something. Then she slowly got to her feet and turned towards him. What was she….?

WHACK.

She had slapped him. An open-handed, resounding slap in the face. As if he was a five year old.

"You've been an idiot. Now lie down again", she hissed at him.

"Well done, Lady. Maybe you should have taught him manners earlier." Chuckling, the thug walked off.

At least he didn't pay attention to the foolish woman anymore.

Face burning, Ash lay down on the marble floor again.

… … …

"We'll touch ground in thirty minutes, dude", Guerrero told Chance, who had started pacing again.

"The special unit got clearance from the governor", Winston added. "They'll arrive about the same time."

"A friend of mine sent them the most accurate ground plans there are of the bank. Even better than the official ones", Ames said. She was relieved she could finally contribute something useful.

Chance rested his hand on her shoulder. For a moment he said nothing. Then he nodded. He was not alone in this. Ash was not alone. This would work.


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Of course Chance wanted to free his son himself. For heaven's sake, this was not the first time he and his crew were faced with a hostage situation. But he did see that the jet maybe wouldn't make it back to San Francisco in time. Yes, to be on the safe side it was better to have a team of experienced specialists on the spot that could interfere, should things get hairy prior to their arrival.

So he had agreed to Ilsa's suggestion of calling an anti-terrorist unit to the city.

Unfortunately thanks to all the red tape the mayor had tried to put up, that initial situation had significantly changed in the meantime. By now it was clear that they and the special unit would arrive at the bank roughly around the same time.

"They won't let you tag along, bro", Guerrero calmly told Chance. "It's invitation only. They won't let any civilian meddle in their affairs."

"I won't sit around twiddling my thumbs while my son is in the middle of the storming of a bank!", Chance snarled at him. Ames put a hand on his knee. He brushed it away and started pacing again.

"The whole area is blocked off. With the forged badges Guerrero's guy has waiting for us at the airport we'll get past the controls, but with regular SFPD, SFPD's SWAT team _and _Ilsa's special unit around, there's nothing we can do on our own", Winston pointed out. He knew Chance hated being sidelined like this, but these were the facts.

"And maybe it wouldn't be a good idea anyway", Ames dared to add. "You helping to storm the bank would be like allowing a doctor to perform surgery on a relative."

"Are you saying I couldn't rescue my own son?" Chance was practically yelling at her.

Now, as much as Ames could sympathize with Chance, hell, she was worried to death herself, she would not let him yell at her for no reason, especially not when all of their wellbeing was at stake. If anything happened to Ash or Chance, it wouldn't leave any of them unscathed. "What I'm saying, Chance, is that you can't think straight right now!", she yelled back.

"Personal investment influences the judgment, dude. Remember the disaster with Maria?", Guerrero chimed in, still very calm. "These guys from the special unit are the best and they've got clearance from the authorities. We can't lose time and risk causing confusion by forcing our way in. Would have been different if we had been present from the beginning. Now it's too late. Let them do their job."

The pilot signaled for them to put their seatbelts on. They'd touch down in less than five minutes.

Chance angrily sat down and strapped himself in. Deep down he knew they were right. Nevertheless it felt like someone had put him in chains.

… … …

"So my people in the bank didn't find a thing in the vault's lockers… the predictable stuff of course, jewels, money, all sorts of documents, even a suitcase full of cocaine and a couple of very interesting discs with video footage that might bring in a couple of extra bucks", B. Brax said thoughtfully.

"But nothing, nothing at all that would explain why Ilsa Pucci is bribing everyone in sight, Victor Joubert and Guerrero are wreaking havoc on every snitching and non-snitching thug in the Bay area and Christopher Chance is calling in favors left and right. They're setting the city on fire. And now you, asking for a personal meeting…" He turned around to face his visitor.

"Care to let me know what this is about?"

Innokentij of course didn't reply. Face unreadable he stood in the middle of the room, still like a statue. His whole body however, the firmly set jaw, the squared shoulders, the way he was standing with his legs apart, spoke of immense violence only momentarily tamed by his iron will. Brax studied him with barely veiled amusement.

Then suddenly something seemed to dawn on him and his smile grew in sardonic triumph.

"It's not "what" they want to protect so badly, it's "who", isn't it?" Brax took his cell phone and speed dialed his man in the bank. "Tell me, Walter, is there anybody who stood out? Anyone who somehow caught your attention?", he asked, still all smiles.

Walter, the raccoon man, took his time to answer. Frowning under his mask his let his gaze wander slowly about the room, resting it on one hostage after another. "There was a woman, heavily armed", he finally said. "But she didn't cause any trouble. Her son misbehaved a little, but she reined him in. No problem."

"Her son?" Brax raised his eyebrows, slightly tilted his head and looked at Innokentij. "Tell me more about him."

"About fifteen. Looks like he's into sports… surprisingly calm, now that you mention it. Pointed a gun at him and he didn't freak. Looked me straight in the eye; then he suddenly began to shake, like one would suspect, but in hindsight, I'm wondering if it was an act... Could be he was trying to fool me into underestimating him."

Brax returned his attention to Innokentij. "So it's really true, isn't it? You found yourself your golden boy, the ultimate soldier that will help you expand your organization."

"Just tell me what you want", Innokentij snarled.

Brax grinned at him with mischievously glittering eyes. "Twenty-five million dollars in cash."

"You'll have it by six."

Brax broke out into roaring laughter. "The mighty Innokentij, allowing himself to be blackmailed…? You don't really think I'd leave such a deadly weapon in your hands, do you?"

"You know who I am, Brax. And you know what I'm capable of. Touch him and you'll regret it."

Still laughing, Brax contacted Walter in the bank again. "Time to leave. Open the tunnel. But one thing first… the boy you told me about…."

"Yes?" Walter signaled his colleagues to get ready for their grand escape.

"Shoot him."

… … …

"We've got an audio feed from the bank!", Guerrero yelled, clinging to his notebook as Chance raced towards the bank at high speed. "I've activated one of the phones so that it works like a bug."

Thanks to Ilsa's and his own special connections they were expected and their car was let past the gates without having to stop for ID checking. Ilsa and Ames were following in a second car. The latest news from the special unit was that they were getting ready to storm.

"I don't hear anything!", Chance yelled back.

"That's because nobody's saying anything!" Guerrero readjusted some of the parameters but still all he got was silence, only vaguely disturbed by…

"Sounds like footsteps", Winston said. "Several people walking around in combat boots. They seem to be getting busy."

Chance brought the car to a screeching halt right by the police cars parked in front of the bank's entrance and threw the door open, ready to jump out.

Just then two new sounds came from the bank. He heard them simultaneously through Guerrero's laptop and the closed door of the building.

A scream.

And a shot.


	43. the hardest part

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ the hardest part ~**_

The moment the shot was fired all hell broke loose. No force in the universe could have kept Chance behind the police tape. He stormed in with the special unit. Nobody tried to stop him. Ames sent a silent prayer heavenwards thanking all whom it may concern for Ilsa's influence on the governor.

Despite the turmoil in the bank and all the frightened hostages lying flat on the ground, Chance recognized Philippa immediately. His heart froze. The blood, the gaping wound on the back of her head… He knew she was dead the moment he laid eyes on her. But where was Ash?

A split second later he realized she must have thrown herself in front of a bullet and was still covering him. The special unit's members checked the building for any signs of the hostage takers, but Chance could only think of his son. He pulled Philippa's body aside and grabbed him, putting him on his feet, frantically looking for any kind of injuries.

His shirt and trousers, even parts of his blond hair were crimson red, but all the blood on him was Philippa's. Ash was unharmed.

Only then it dawned on Chance what his son had just witnessed.

His mother's death.

Ash was just staring at him with huge eyes. Years ago Chance had seen a horse with a broken leg. It had looked at him in exactly the same way.

Terror. Confusion. Unfathomable pain.

Chance took his child in his arms and carried him outside. Someone tried to stop him, telling him they needed the boy's clothes since it was evidence, and anyway he was a key witness, but Winston stepped in.

… … …

"You should have taken him to a hospital", Dr. Grace said. "He is highly traumatized. This is nothing you can treat with a bit of pep talk and sparring. He needs therapy and special medication. Don't allow him to bury this somewhere. He has to talk about it."

Chance thought about how he had undressed Ash like a small child, put him under the shower, washed the blood off… He hadn't moved on his own at all. Completely paralyzed he had let his father dry his skin with a towel and dress him again in fresh clothes.

Grace was right, they needed professional help with this. But instinct told him a hospital was not going to work.

"At least make sure he takes those tonight and tomorrow." Grace put a small box of pills on the kitchen table.

"Sedatives?" He eyed the box with open distrust.

"A new generation of anti-stress meds that work directly on the protein synthesis in the brain. After today's events he's an almost certain candidate to develop severe PTSD. Clinical studies indicate that this special type of drugs helps putting the chemical imbalance in the brain cells that was caused by the traumatic event back into order again."

Chance still looked skeptical. In both his former and current line of work frequent traumas came with the territory. It was what the old Christopher Chance had meant when he had said "It was never easy." And it was what Guerrero meant when he told newbies in the business that the emotional crashes were the worst part of the job.

"Don't think of it as a chemical crutch. Think of it as the same principle as disinfecting a wound. It can heal only when you clean it."

Winston briefly appeared in the doorway, holding a plastic bag – Ash's blood-smeared clothes. He just looked at Chance and lifted the bag a little. Chance nodded and Winston walked away again. A short time later they heard the elevator ding.

CSI was already anxiously waiting to process the clothes. Their delayed and rather obscure mode of deliverance could cause problems once they had the hostage takers in custody. A cunning lawyer could easily dispute their admissibility as evidence.

Judging from the fierce way Guerrero was hacking away at his computer and making three words long telephone conversations, however, there'd probably never be a lawsuit.

Chance decided he needed to talk to Guerrero about this matter, but not now. At the moment all that mattered was Ash.

Winston also had an appointment at the morgue. He was going to identify Philippa. One or two of Ilsa's lawyers would meet him there and brief him on how to explain her rather checkered biography without giving away information that would compromise Ash's or Chance's safety.

They had to tread very carefully here – Philippa had spun a highly complicated web of lies, false documents and fake IDs to protect her son. The lawyers had basically hacked a legally valid path through that jungle which Winston had to follow strictly when it came to answering questions.

The rest of Ilsa's lawyers was working on the paperwork necessary for Chance to gain custody of his son. So far there were no official documents whatsoever that connected him with Ash. They had to work fast to prevent social services from starting to snoop around. Not an easy task, considering that Chance's biography was just as checkered as Philippa's… Well, Ilsa was present to make sure they did their very best.

… … …

Dr. Grace was called to another emergency. Urging Chance one more time to get professional help she hurried away. He took a glass of water, grabbed the box of pills and walked upstairs with a heavy heart. Grace was right, wounds needed cleansing, and if that stuff helped…

Ames was sitting with Ash. Judging from his position on the edge of the bed he hadn't moved at all since Chance had placed him there. Ames' face was streaked with tears. His son's was void of any expression. Chance nodded at Ames and she quickly got up and left.

"Take this, it'll help." Chance fumbled a single pill out of the box and held it out to Ash on the palm of his hand. With the other he offered him the glass of water.

For a moment Ash simply stared at both.

Then, in one violent move, he angrily lashed out at both pill and water.

"No way", he hissed.

With every other person, even Guerrero, Chance would have found a way to give the sedative by force, maybe in a different form.. a short struggle, a quick injection … but he couldn't with his son. He just couldn't.


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

When Ash woke up the next morning the first thing he did was wonder why his head was hurting so badly. He also asked himself why he was in the warehouse – it was the middle of a school week, he was supposed to be at home, wasn't he?

Then he remembered.

… … …

Baptiste looked at his cell's display and frowned. Number suppressed. Maybe he should just ignore the call. He weighed the small, noisy device in his hand, trying to make up his mind. His gut told him it wouldn't be the last one. Pressing his lips together, he tapped his index finger against the phone screen.

"Hey, mate."

A voice he hadn't heard in a long time. And not missed at all.

Grimacing at Greta as if the call was just a ridiculous nuisance, Baptiste walked a couple of steps away from her. Of course she frowned in immediate suspicion. She knew him well.

"How did you get this number, dude?", he asked, voice lowered.

"Mate, it's me."

Baptiste sighed. Indeed, it was Guerrero…. stupid question. He let his eyes wander over the crystal blue ocean, the glimmering white sand of the beach, the palm trees, Greta's beautiful, barely bikini-covered body… he should have known this wouldn't last.

"Got a job for you", Guerrero said.

"I'm retired." Baptiste grimaced some more and waved at Greta. He could see she was getting more suspicious by the minute.

"Flawless hits were your specialty… Prime Minister of Argentina… Senator Stanton… Their deaths are still widely perceived as accidents. Nicely done, mate. I need something similar, just without the collateral damage. No crashed airplanes."

There was something underlying Guerrero's voice… Baptiste couldn't quite lay a finger on it.

"What is this about, dude?"

Guerrero told him.

Greta watched Baptiste's body language subtly change from annoyed and alert to angry and determined. Her stomach tightened. Something was up. Whatever had happened, it meant something to him. When he came walking back to her, his face had become an unreadable mask.

"I'll be away for a while."

She just knew asking for any additional information would be fruitless.

As Baptiste packed his bag, his cell rang again. Once more the number was suppressed. "Stop mithering me, will you?", he growled into the phone. "I AM on my way, mate."

"Good to hear", said the gravelly, slightly slurred voice on the other end of the line. Baptiste froze. The Old Man… He had never called before although he had left him his number.

"So you're packing", Joubert said as if they had last talked yesterday. "Coming out of retirement?"

Baptiste remained silent, not sure what to make out of the whole thing.

"B. Brax is quite the target. Need backup?"

… … …

After sitting by his son's bed on a hard chair all night, brooding, sipping at a glass of scotch, watching over his child's uneasy and often interrupted sleep, Chance had needed a breath of fresh air and climbed onto the warehouse's roof. When he came back, Ash was gone. Damn it, had he pretended to be asleep and waited till he was out the room? Not many people managed to trick Chance like that. Well, it had been a long night... where WAS he?

Chance found him in the gym section of the warehouse, pounding away at a sandbag with his bare fists. "There's a reason gloves were invented, you know?"

His son kept pounding the bag, hair a mess, face taut with anger. When Chance noticed crimson red traces on the white fabric, he had enough. With one fluent move he wrapped an arm around the sandbag and dragged it out of the way, causing Ash, suddenly hitting thin air, to topple over. Chance caught him with his other arm, let go of the bag and tried to hold onto his son, but he struggled.

"Ilsa convinced a specialist to make some room for you on his schedule. She set up an appointment this afternoon."

Finally the incredible anger Ash had felt surging through his veins all morning found a target - Ilsa and her damned money! What was she thinking, trying to fix everything with her credit card? Well, he had news for her, he didn't need her wealth, her connections and, for heaven's sake, her pity! This was NOTHING money could make right again!

"NO WAY!", he barked at his father.

"You need professional treatment." Even to his own ears, Chance sounded unconvincing. And of course Ash was quick to point it out...

"Says who?", he snarled, starting towards the door.

Chance caught him by the arm. Ash violently lashed out at him. Chance blocked the blow instinctively, but he didn't hit back. He could have easily brought him under control, with an armbar or a headlock, just to name the most obvious choices, but he felt as if he was paralyzed... as if those yibs were back he had suffered from in Brussels...

Ash fled into the showers.

Chance stared at the door his son had slammed shut behind him. He listened to the sound of the rushing water and shook his head in helpless frustration. Never had he felt so far out of his depth… he just didn't know what to do…

... ... ...

"I'm very sorry", Winston said again and tried once more to finish the telephone conversation he had been having for the past ten minutes. "I do understand the gravity of your situation Mrs Evensong, trust me, I do, but we're dealing with a personal tragedy ourselves... For the time being our business is closed... There are a couple of very competent people I can refer you to, though..."

"Case coming in?" Chance, suddenly standing in front of his desk, asked. He still wore the same facial expression he had shown all of yesterday. Winston knew it well. He had seen it a million times in the years before Ilsa's and Ames' arrival, when things slowly began to change... and hardly ever since Ash had shown up. Now it was back again.

Winston covered the receiver with his hand and shook his head. "You can't seriously..."

Ames, who had been listening from the sofa, came up behind him and put a hand on his arm.

"We're taking it", Chance said determinedly.


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: I took the liberty and copied part of minx227's review… she was very right on… in a way… **_

Ames had done the unthinkable and dug into Guerrero's personal tea stash.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

After yesterday's events she had felt the pressing need to somehow calm her nerves and clear her head. Considering how Guerrero had dealt with the truth about his father's death, he was the calmest person she knew when it came to facing personal tragedy.

Maybe it was the tea.

He owned some very special brands, directly imported from China, very hard to get. It was worth a try. In the light of recent developments he'd maybe put mercy before justice and refrain from peeling her fingernails off with a fishhook, should he find out.

The tea was gray like she imagined morning mist above the Thames to be and tasted bitter like gunpowder. But it indeed helped to clear her head. "Chance is probably the only one who really understands what Ash is going through", she mused, staring out the window. "He had to deal with Katherine's death and his part in it."

Winston, sitting behind his desk, made a soft scoffing sound. Ames had made him a cup of tea, too, and at first she was unsure if he was commenting on the tea or her statement.

"He has never _dealt with_ Katherine's death." He took another sip of tea and grimaced.

"It took you naked in a natural pool on a deserted tropical island after a plane crash to finally make him cave in to his feelings for you, remember? And trust me, not a day goes by he doesn't worry about you. His greatest fear is endangering the people he loves."

Winston leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. For a moment the old emotions came up again, the despair he had felt back in the bank, after he had opened his eyes and found Chance gone. Bullet wound in the shoulder, by a hair's breadth defused bomb around his chest, two days of torture, none of that had hurt as much as the loss of his friend.

"There used to be a time he fled whenever he got too attached. By now he has learned that some ties can't be outrun. But that doesn't mean he has learned to deal with anything. He still feels responsible for Katherine's death and he probably will go to his grave carrying that guilt."

"Philippa caught the bullet meant for Ash…", Ames mumbled. "He'll think it's his fault…"

"Yeah, he'll think exactly that because he's his father's son. And Chance can't tell him her death wasn't his fault because he feels the same way about Katherine's death… Chance can't tell Ash not to blame himself because Chance still struggles with the conviction of having failed in a very similar situation. Ash would immediately know it's all BS."

Ames bit her lip. Outside thick mist was beginning to obscure the city from her view. The alert system announced a visitor.

… … …

"Hey…" Isamu hovered near the doorstep.

"Come in", Ash said without turning to look at his visitor. He was again sitting on the edge of his bed. Carmine had climbed up beside him and was resting his big head in his lap.

Isu cautiously stepped closer, hesitated, finally sat down next to his friend. Ash kept staring at the wall. Carmine looked at the visitor with furrowed eyebrows and sighed, as if to say "I've done my best, but he's been like that all day."

"Brought you something", Isamu mumbled, still unsure if his gift was appropriate. He remembered well how he had felt when his father had died… only back then he hadn't known Tsuru had been his father. When his mother finally let him in on the truth it had been as if he'd lost him twice.

Ash didn't show any reaction at all, neither positive nor negative, so Isu decided to go ahead and produced a small item made of paper from his bag. He handed it to him by holding it right in front of him, invading his field of view.

"What's that?" Ash cautiously took it from him and turned it in his hand. It was one of those origami thingies.

"That's a crane", Isu said. "In Japan the crane is a symbol of hope in dark times. It stands for good fortune, longevity, fidelity… after 9/11 thousands of cranes were folded in Japan and sent to New York, as a sign of sympathy and an attempt to console. After the earthquake, tsunami and Fukushima nuclear disaster in March 2011 people all over the world folded cranes and sent them to Japan."

"Thanks…", Ash muttered, balancing the paper bird on the palm of his hand. It was cream-white, except for a tiny kanji symbol on its left wing - **地震**. "What's that?"

"The Japanese word for "earthquake" is "jishin", Isamu explained. "But jishin also means self-confidence. You write it differently, but it sounds the same… "ji" can mean "ground" or "oneself" and "shin" can either mean "shake" or "believe"… When my country was faced with the devastating results of the earthquake in 2011, everything seemed lost… but the people got back on their feet…"

"I get the idea…", Ash interrupted him, harsher than he had intended.

… … …

"So there is no way… really no way… to save your life?", Chance asked the new client, a woman in her forties, unnaturally thin, face haggard, eyes huge and deep in their sockets, hair untimely gray.

"I'm dying and no amount of money or wisdom in this world could save me. At least one thing my doctors and I agree upon."

Winston stifled a sigh. There was a reason he hadn't wanted to take this case – aside from the obvious fact that they were all still very, very shaken and it would maybe best to take a time out and regroup. He knew Chance wanted something to take his mind off things; as much as he loved his son and wanted to be there for him… truth to be told he had no idea how to do that. Chance had never dealt well with grief. Well, this case definitely wouldn't provide the distraction he was so desperately looking for.

"How can we help you then?", Chance asked, sounding a lot more professional then, Winston was sure about that, he felt.

"I need proof to bring my murders down", she said.


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Ilsa kept telling herself that their new client, Diane Evensong, must have been a pretty woman, once upon a time. She tried picturing her in a cheerleader uniform, a bikini or a prom dress… it was fruitless. Her inner eye refused to show her anything else but the skeleton like person right in front of her.

"Ten years ago I needed money", Diane began. "I had fallen in love… head over heels… quit my job, moved to another city… only to find out he was an idiot. It ended badly… found him in bed with the neighbor… I ended up kind of shipwrecked… no job, no apartment... my parents had told me from the very beginning he was no good and I wasn't exactly keen on proving them right by coming crawling back to them. Then I saw an advert on the notice board of a café – experimental subjects wanted…"

Ames studied the woman and tried to keep herself from involuntarily shuddering. She looked so horrible… a wreck, a shell, a ghastly shadow of the person she must have been ten years ago. Instinct told Ames to keep as much distance to her as possible. Idiotic of course, since Diane's poor state of health wasn't infectious. But still…

"Everything went fine", Diane continued. "They told me it was a study regarding the interdependency between natural and artificial hormones in women of my age group. I visited the laboratory once a week, they gave me pills, checked my blood pressure and took blood samples about every month or so. The payment was very generous. It gave me the breather I needed to take back control over my life."

She reached for the glass of water Winston had placed on the table for her. Her hands were shaking so badly, she needed to hold on to it with both hands. Painfully slowly she brought it to her mouth and took the tiniest sip from it. Nevertheless half of it trickled along her parched lips and down the right corner of her mouth. She seemed to have great trouble swallowing the rest.

"After six months the tests were over. In the meantime I had found a new job, met a nice man, moved to the outskirts of the city… life was getting better again and it continued to do so for the next ten years. Matt and me got married, but we never had children – apparently I was unable to conceive – but I didn't think much of it, till…" Diane looked at her shaking hands. The spidery thin fingers were slightly curved, like claws. She could only straighten them with great effort and just for a short time.

"Three months ago my hair suddenly started falling out. My teeth became loose to the point where I bit into a sandwich, tasted blood, checked and a tooth had gotten stuck in the bread, completely pulled out, dental root and all. Doctors diagnosed me with multiple organ failure. No idea what caused it, no idea how to treat it. I've got about a week left."

Ames glanced at her reflection in one of the conference room's many windows. Her dark long hair was shiny, her skin was carefully tanned, her lips were full, nature had provided her with a generous cleavage… she was proud of herself, her appearance, the effect she had on men… especially Chance, of course.

"What happened to your husband?", Ames asked Diane. "What happened to Matt?"

The way Diane averted her eyes and bit her lower lip said more than a thousand words.

"He couldn't deal with it…", she finally choked.

Her words sent a violent shiver down Ames' spine. So her husband ran away when things got difficult. Would Chance do the same? Or would he stay by her side? Against an invisible, invincible opponent he couldn't fight? Would he be able to see her suffer, would he be able to stand having to watch helplessly?

She remembered how he'd been during the plane ride, when they had known Ash was in danger but too far away to interfere… like a caged tiger. And now… was taking this case not similar to running away? Because he couldn't stand seeing Ash suffer? If she hadn't felt so sorry for Diane, she'd probably have voted against this job.

Judging from the looks on Ilsa's and Winston's faces, they were probably thinking in the same direction. Guerrero was curiously absent. Where was he?

"From what you told me on the phone I gather you suspect the pills you took in connection with the study on artificial hormones to be responsible for your illness?", Winston asked.

"The pharmaceutical company behind the study refused my doctors any insight into the study files. To me that means they've got something to hide. They claim I've got no proof whatsoever that the ten year old study and my current state of health are connected. I tried suing them for access to the files, but my appeal was denied. The judge subscribed to the company's opinion. The study and my decline are too far apart, in their opinion… but there's no other explanation! This can't be natural!"

She had cried the last part – too exhausting for her fragile condition, apparently. She started coughing badly.

"We'll go in and get copies of those files for you", Chance said matter-of-factly. "Shouldn't pose too much of a problem."

"In that case…", Ilsa, who had sat in silence the whole meeting, suddenly chimed in, "Mr. Winston, Ms. Ames and I will handle the files' retrieval. Our company is currently going through a phase of restructuring and Mr. Chance's skills are needed here."

Chance stared at her in speechless anger. What the hell was she thinking? How DARE she?

"A WORD, Mrs. Pucci", he snarled.

With a very confused Diane Evensong and a team rather proud of her braveness looking on, they headed to her office. Chance barely waited with yelling at her till the door closed behind them.

Ilsa patiently waited out his rant about her not being his boss, not being in charge of the field part of the job and generally still an amateur on so many levels. "I understand that you feel the need to get away", she finally said. "But your place is here, with your son."

"He wants to be left alone right now", Chance replied angrily.

"What your son _wants_, Chance, and what he _needs_ are two different things. You can't go off on a case with your child so devastated. You have to stay close to him. He must know that he is the most important thing in the world to you." Ilsa was now practically pleading with Chance.

"He is! But he doesn't want me around!"

"And _you _wouldn't want anyone around in that situation either, would you?", Ilsa asked, arching her eyebrow, suddenly suspiciously calm again.

Chance realized where this was heading.

Was that ashram thing going to haunt him forever?

"But what I would want and what would be good for me are two different things…", he sighed, nodding in something he very rarely admitted: defeat.

Ilsa poured him a drink.


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: The idea for this chapter was provided by the marvelous pocketsevens ages ago – I finally found a place where it fits perfectly! THANK YOU!**_

Chance knew Ilsa was right and he also knew that she had just put into words what the others were thinking. Ames had basically tried telling him the same thing, just not with words. The way she kept looking at him, cautiously watching… silently wrapping her arms around his shoulders when he had sat watching over sleeping Ash last night... brushing a gentle kiss against his forehead…

She had firsthand experience with his vulnerable side, knew how difficult it was for him to deal with situations he couldn't fight his way out of. As long as there was a chance to escape, as slight and as crazy as it was, he knew what to do. But once something was final, unchangeable, definite, he was at a loss and his instinct told him to run.

Truth to be told, after the ordeal with the bearded guy, Winston and Aunt Suzie in the bank, he had gone into hiding at the ashram not simply to protect those he was close to. He had just as much, although at that point in time he hadn't realized it, tried to protect himself – from more hardship, from more sorrow, from more terrible losses. This time around, he couldn't run. He needed to face his insecurities, worries, fears to somehow help his son.

He needed to admit that he was feeling all these things… to show Ash that he wasn't alone. But ugh, was that hard… last time he'd been in a roughly similar situation he had developed those strange yips and risked life and limb in the Christof tournament because he'd been so worried about Winston and not been able to tell him… Winston had made it easy on him, in the end his old friend had voiced what had been bothering him so much… things with Ash would be a lot more difficult. And they still needed to convince him to see a doctor.

At the moment Ash was upstairs again, lying on this bed, exhausted from punching the sandbag. "Leave me alone", he had hissed at Carmine as the dog had tried joining him on the blanket, and from the tone of his voice Chance had known he had not simply meant the animal but his father, too. The door to his room slammed shut so hard that it made Ilsa's glass desk rattle downstairs spoke for that interpretation, too.

Chance decided to let his son be for the moment. He understood his need to be alone for a while, he really did. Later he'd sneak in and sit by his side again. And anyway, he was a little busy right now…

With Guerrero still being away, possibly out of town, it was up to Chance to support Winston in the van with the help of the computer in the conference room. Thanks to Ilsa, the van was very well-equipped, but for some of the more complicated operations, such as hacking into a military satellite, for example, they just needed the extra power of the main computer. And tonight's operation was definitely going to be one of the more complicated ones. After much discussion they had decided to do a Coney Island…

… … …

"Ilsa Pucci? Did you just say ILSA PUCCI? World famous billionaire and philanthropist?" Sam Hackett, the research institute's manager almost couldn't believe it – it was a rather slow afternoon, two more hours to go till shift chance, he'd spent the morning in a meeting with people who definitely had too much time on their hands and too little of a social life and had only just contemplated for twenty minutes the question why the leaves of his rubber fig always seemed to attract more dust than the leaves of his peace lilies.

And now, all of a sudden, ILSA PUCCI was paying the institute a visit!

Oh, good lord, maybe she could provide them with some extra funding? Ever since the change of management a couple of years ago, their financial situation was precarious, mildly put. It was still a mystery to him how the former upper level management had been able to make so much profit…

"What can we do for you, Mrs. Pucci?", the manager asked with his broadest smile and his most subservient voice.

"Thank you for making room on your surely tight schedule so spontaneously for me, Mr. Hackett", Ilsa smiled back at him, friendly but non-committal, just like she had practiced it at a million charity events. Right behind the manager was the safe that most likely contained the file Diane Evensong needed so desperately. They had already ruled out all other storage places.

"A tour of our laboratories maybe?", Hackett suggested. "Or would you like to refresh yourself a little first? My secretary makes fantastic coffee…"

"Actually, Mr. Hackett…" Ilsa fought the urge to take a deep breath. She needed to deliver the next line casually. "I would very much like to see the institute's boiler room."

It was written all over Hackett's face that he wanted to do nothing more than blurt out "The BOILER ROOM? What the hell…?" But she was Ilsa Pucci and he was a research institute manager who needed money. She could have asked him to remove the office kitchen's fridge from the wall and look behind it and he would have happily agreed. So they made their way downstairs… to the boiler room, the room in the building that was furthest away from the manager's office.

At night the building was protected by a rather high end security system… a Coney Island was the best strategy – Ames would slip in with a stolen key card as soon as Ilsa had lured the manager away, crack the safe, retrieve the file in question and leave again. Easy gig, unless….

"Uh-oh…."

"Define _uh-oh_", Winston in the van immediately tensed up. Why couldn't things go smooth at least once?

"They upgraded the safe. I can crack it, but I'll only be able to delay the alarm for a couple of seconds. I can't completely circumvent triggering it…"

Winston sighed. "Chance? Any ideas?"

"Ilsa, get ready to write a huge paycheck. Ames, once you've got the file, get ready to beat a hasty retreat."

Ames cracked the safe… Damn it, the thing was full of files, which one… ah, luckily they were labeled quite meticulously. Just as she grabbed the right one, the telephone on the manager's desk began to ring.

And so did all other telephones in the building. Just like the workers' cell phones… When their owners took the call, they all heard the same thing… a Russian sex hotline, in full swing.

Ames was already halfway down the stairs when the alarm began to sound… the automatic signal that was supposed to alert the next police station was turned off, thanks to Winston's skills. And none of the workers could call the police thanks to Swetlana, Nastassja and her colleagues blocking the lines with their calls… Chance had done a very good job linking all the institute's telephones with the Russian call center.

Ames made a clean getaway. Ilsa's was a little costly, but nobody suspected she had anything to do with the break-in. The manager was quite puzzled by the whole thing anyway. "I have no idea what those files contained. They were leftovers from the former management and we haven't had time yet to look into them." He didn't mention that representatives of the highest level of management had explicitly forbidden to look at those files "since it would be a waste of time and resources".

In the van, on their way home, Ilsa couldn't resist, she wanted to know if the answer to Diane Evensong's illness was really in the file. Maybe they could help her after all. She knew some very competent doctors, if they knew what to look for...

Together with Ames she looked into the folder… and gasped.

"Does that mean what I think it does?", Ames whispered.


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Chance was standing in the middle of the office's lobby, in a rare state of indecision. He just couldn't make his mind up what to do next, a very seldom occurrence. Usually he couldn't wait to get rolling, to do something… choosing a course of action came just as natural to him as breathing. Of course back when Ilsa had announced she'd go back to London after the ordeal with the CIA, he had been completely clueless at what to do, too, and it had taken some severe encouragement from Winston to finally move him in the right direction. This time around there was no Winston… he had to come up with a solution all by himself.

The thing was that Diane Evensong's state of health had taken a turn for the worse. She was in hospital now, attached to a respiration apparatus. There wasn't much time left. He wanted to be there when the team explained to her what they had found. Hell, he wanted to do the explanation himself! It was his company, for heaven's sake, Diane Evensong was first and foremost his client, he felt that it was his responsibility to be present, at his crew's side.

On the other hand, with all of them in hospital, who'd keep an eye on Ash? He was still holed up in his room, not a word from him, he hadn't even ventured down the kitchen searching for food. His door was firmly closed, but Chance nevertheless knew he was alive and not doing anything dangerous or stupid… he was using the thermographic camera Ilsa had bought from the Israelis along with the grenade launcher, to make sure his son was alright. The image was fuzzy, but Ash seemed to be spending most of his time frozen on the edge of the bed. Every now and then he curled up on the blanket. Maybe they should just ask the psychologist to come here, to the office… if the shrink entered the room without Ash expecting it… maybe the element of surprise would help opening him up at least a little.

Okay, granted, Chance was aware of the fact that if someone pulled such a stunt on _him_, he knew he'd do everything _but_ open up… BUT this was _his child_ up there, he needed to do something!

Chance's cell phone signaled, a message from Ilsa, they were at the hospital now. Should they wait for him or go ahead with talking to Diane. The doctors were not happy about their visit… but Diane insisted on seeing them, thinking they'd at least provide her with the knowledge that she'd been right all along. This was going to be painful, but lying was not an option. They'd have to tell her the truth… and they'd have to hurry up…

At this very moment the elevator dinged and announced a visitor. The security system had remained silent, so it had to be Guerrero, the only one the system never seemed to be able to detect, no matter how often Winston readjusted it. "Hey bro…", he greeted Chance.

Chance knew this was not the right moment to address the issue, time was pressing, he was needed at the hospital, but on the other hand… before Guerrero was gone again… "You've been busy?", he asked, making it sound as casually as possible.

"List making", Guerrero replied.

"You don't have to do that, you know?", Chance said cautiously, not looking at his friend.

"I know you'd never ask me to do it. But do you really want to let them get away?"

"The cops…" There was no real sense in even mentioning this option. Chance knew how Guerrero would react.

Predictably, he snorted in reply. "You don't want to take that risk, bro."

"With a little help from us the cops could arrest them, sent them to prison…"

"…where they'd still be alive and well. Do you really think Ash could live with that knowledge?" Guerrero was leaning against one of the wooden pillars of the lobby, he looked relaxed and calm, but what he was saying equaled up to priming a bomb.

"What are you implying? Spit it out already!"

"I am _implying_, dude, that Ash will go after his mother's murderers, imprisoned or not. He won't rest till he has hunted them all down and made them wish they'd never been born." Guerrero was still talking calmly, his leaning position with his back against the pillar hadn't changed. But his eyes were firmly trained on Chance.

"YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT MY FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SON!"

"Yes, indeed, I am talking about _your son. _ Your son is angry right now, Chance. Very angry. And that anger has only just begun to flame up. I have seen _you _angry, _Junior…" _

Chance looked at Guerrero as if he had just received a resounding slap in the face… but he also knew, and that knowledge hurt more than any physical damage, that his friend was right. The cold fury in Ash's eyes as he had pounded the sandbag… He was still this side of the brink… but knowing that his mother's murderers were somewhere out there… it would be enough to lure him over the edge, definitely.

Slowly, very slowly Chance nodded. "Then I will…"

Guerrero shook his head. "No, bro. _I_ will. But not tonight. Tonight I'll stay here and keep an eye on him so you can wrap up things with the client. They're already waiting for you."

… … …

Since Diane was wearing a breathing mask, there wasn't much she could say in reply when they told her that the file proved without a doubt that the study she had taken part in was not related whatsoever to the horrible illness that was slowly killing her now. They could see her eyes widen in deep despair, disappointment, sadness… so no closure for her…

"But it also proves that the liver problems that eighty percent of the other participants developed in the past two years _was _definitely caused by the pills you were given", Winston told her. "Very good news for them, since their health insurances collectively claimed the problems were caused by heavy drinking and refused to pay… now the company which conducted the study has to pay the costs for the treatment AND compensatory damages."

"You helped a lot of people", Ilsa said, taking Diane's hand and squeezing it.

Diane's eyes became huge. She started gasping, despite the mask. Her whole body began to shake. Running footsteps could be heard outside the door, but she was dead before the doctor entered the room.


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"You should know that he is… difficult… to deal with at the moment", Ilsa told Helen as they slowly rode the elevator up to the office level. "Don't get me wrong, we appreciate your visit, we really do, but Ashley… He has stated very clearly that he doesn't want to see anyone and it might be that he… pushes you away…"

"It's okay", Helen said, not looking directly at Ilsa. "I imagine he's angry. Someone comes and takes your mother away… out of sheer malice… this kind of thing changes you forever."

Not for the first time Ilsa thought that Helen Grayson was quite mature for her age. Guerrero knew more about that, but not wanting to breach her privacy, she had never asked him for any details.

"So…" Helen still didn't meet Ilsa's gaze. The elevator had almost reached its destination. "What's the policy regarding closed doors here? Do you respect them or do you insist on every room being accessible at all times?"

It took Ilsa a moment till she understood what Helen was aiming at. In the meantime the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Helen didn't move. She just stood and waited for Ilsa to make up her mind and reply.

"We respect closed doors", Ilsa finally said.

Helen nodded.

… … …

Ames was sitting on the couch in the lobby when the elevator stopped, stroking Carmine. The poor dog knew something was very wrong, he could sense the sadness and desperation radiating from Ash's room better than anyone else around, but he was just as helpless as the rest of them. One of his people was in pain and he couldn't do anything about it. It made him restless and unhappy. He even ate less.

As a form of nonverbal greeting Ames smiled and nodded as Helen walked past her, then returned her attention to Carmine… but only for a brief moment. Realizing what she had just seen in Helen's face, what she had, out of the blue, recognized in the girl's face, she froze and slowly turned to watch as she ascended the stairs. Her leg seemed to give her more trouble than usual. Ilsa wasn't following her, she had let herself fall back vaguely in the proximity of her office's door and was now, just like Ames, watching her.

Helen was dressed completely in black – black jeans, black turtleneck pullover... She had her hair tied into a strict pony tail. Well, her outfit was always rather sinister; had they ever seen her in lighter colors? But the small handbag slung around her shoulder, that one was new. Helen wasn't the type for handbags. Apparently this time around she had felt the need to pack.

Noises from the kitchen area indicated that the boys were fixing food. Shrugging, Ames got up from the sofa and crossed the room. Ilsa trailed behind her.

… … …

"It's really kind of Helen to visit", Chance said, scrambling eggs in a pan. "And so far it doesn't seem like he's kicking her out. Maybe she can distract him a little."

It was just a random comment, but when nobody answered, Chance became suspicious. Bracing himself for more bad news he took the pan off the stove and slowly turned around. "What is it? Spit it out already!"

He rested his gaze on Ames, strict blue eyes making very clear that he was not going to let go till he had an answer.

"I think Helen might take a… um… rather hands-on approach to the whole distraction thing", Ames finally said.

For a moment Chance stared at her, frowning and genuinely puzzled. Then it dawned on him.

"NO!" He took a step towards the door.

"What do you want to do, bro, barge in and make everything worse?" Guerrero calmly stirred his tea. Only Ilsa could see how tense he really was.

"Not like that!", Chance all but yelled. "Not in pain, in desperation, in anger, not like…" He broke off in mid-sentence but everybody knew what he had wanted to say.

_Not like me. _

Ames got up and pulled him into a tight embrace. At first he just let it happen, then he leaned into her, let her hold him.

Winston turned around and switched on the radio near the microwave. It was playing an old Crowded House song – Four Seasons in one Day.

… … …

"So Guerrero has been list-making…", Innokentij mused, glancing over his spies' latest reports. "Four names… four people who'll soon wish they had never been born."

He tapped against a name in the text in front of him. His new assistant eagerly noted it down.

"You've got to find that one. Let Guerrero have fun with the rest, but that one belongs to me."

… … …

Later that evening Guerrero was alone with Chance. They had changed their beverages to something stronger than tea.

"There's something I need to tell you, bro…"

"More bad news?" Chance took a sip from his Scotch.

"Philippa left a key among her personal things. Belongs to a safe deposit box. Apparently she had stashed some sort of testament there. A letter for Ash, about his mother… Went to retrieve it… box was empty." Guerrero gave Chance time to let the information sink in.

"Maybe she changed her mind and emptied it?" Chance already knew the answer, even before Guerrero shook his head.

Somebody else must have broken in and retrieved whatever Philippa had kept in there. Somebody who felt powerful enough to not bother with replacing or simply copying the content but instead deliberately letting them know about the thievery.

Outside the sun had sunk and day had turned into night. For a long time Chance did nothing but stare at the darkness, contemplating that somewhere out there was a new threat. A phantom menace of yet unknown dimensions.

… … …

Helen was gone and Ash was alone again. He had put his jeans back on, but his shirt was still lying on the floor where he had dropped it. Curled up on his bed he lay, face covered with silent tears. Never in his life had he felt so alone.

_As sad as it is, some things are irreversible. You can't undo the past, no matter how much you regret your part in it and would like to make it alright again. Life always goes on. No matter what, the wheels keep on grinding. It can bring you down at times. Keeping on living, that's the hardest part. Facing another day and trying to do better, despite the weight on your shoulders… Letting guilt and remorse eat you away is just as wrong as ignoring the consequences of your actions. Finding a balance and never giving yourself up, that's the real challenge._

Philippa Marx, September 1st 1977 – January 16th 2013

Rest in Peace.


	50. four

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ four ~**_

Chance decided to start with paperclips. He linked them all together, creating a long chain. Then he used the stapler to arrange the chain into a spiral and attach it to a piece of cardboard ripped off a folder.

Not bad. Maybe he should have become an artist.

He did basically the same with about two dozen rubber bands – tied them into a long chain and then stapled them to the cardboard in a spiral matching the first one.

Yeah. Definitely Museum of Modern Art material.

With the help of adhesive tape Chance created a grid to cover the spirals.

Now a bit of color with the help of a few highlighters…

Hm, maybe the eraser into the center? Upright? Like a small tower?

Chance was sure he had seen some glue lying about…

Pushpins. Lots of pushpins….

Very pretty… Now, with a bit of toner poured along the spiral lines he could set the whole thing on fire…

Theoretically the grid should melt first, then the rubber bands… the cardboard last… Or would the toner soak the paper so completely that it would go up in flames and engulf everything in one mighty blaze?

Definitely worth to try and find out…

"No offense, but are you bored?" Marybeth Tucker, their client, frowned and gave him a questioning look, startling him from his musings.

"It's a professional death retardant specialist thing", Chance told her with a wink and a reassuring smile.

"I still find it difficult to accept that there is actually someone out there to kill me…", she said.

Truth to be told, Chance found that _difficult to accept_, too. Marybeth Tucker was pretty much the most harmless, most non-provocative, most – yeah, well – BORING person he had ever met. She was a linguist. She spent her life counting prefixes and suffixes and writing long essays about the results. For the life of his, Chance couldn't think of a less hazard-free occupation.

But her name had cropped up during an interrogation. A suspect in a drug case had tried getting a deal with the DA and claimed somebody had put out a hit on her. He had had nothing for them to go on, neither the name of the person who wanted her dead nor an idea what she had done to provoke such a radical measure.

What was SFPD supposed to do? Provide her with 24/7 personal protection? Because a snitch had tried to save his own skin with some wild rumors?

Not an option with the city's newest budget cuts. There was just not enough to go on to justify a full-fledged investigation. Not when they had their hands full with real bodies filling up the morgue. A new gang war had broken out about two weeks ago and keeping that quiet from the tourists had top priority at the moment.

But the officer who had taken the statement from the suspect called Winston and Winston had decided it sounded like something that fell into their remit. Philippa's funeral had gone down a week ago, Ash was still silent and refusing to see a doctor of any kind, but at least he was going to school again. They had a deal – as long as he went to school, his grades remained steady and his teachers' didn't report any problems they'd believe him that he was able to deal with the situation on his own. Marybeth Tucker's case sounded well-suited to slowly get back to normal again – she was not terminally ill, she didn't seem to be involved in any kind of mafia or agency activities… they'd do it the old-fashioned way, make her appear vulnerable, lure out the threat and eliminate it.

Thus Chance was stuck with watching Marybeth Tucker count her prefixes and suffixes.

And yes, he was bored to death.

They were practically presenting her on a silver tray and nothing, NOTHING was happening. What Chance needed right now, after all that mourning, talking, thinking, discussing of the past few weeks were a couple of explosions… a car chase… a shootout… maybe he should set the cardboard on fire after all… There was a box of matches on the windowsill.

"You still there?" Winston's voice over the earpiece.

"Tell me you found something. Anything."

"Don't you think getting bored on the job just because nobody is pointing a gun at you is a tad bit unprofessional?" Ames.

Chance smiled at Marybeth, walked to the far end of the room and turned a little away from her. "I'm close to trying to kill her myself just so one of you can stop me and we can have a decent confrontation", he whispered.

Ames laughed. The first time he had heard her laugh in weeks.

"It indeed doesn't look as if Ms. Tucker is in immediate danger… maybe the police's assumption is correct and the information was the result of a man desperately trying to escape the three strikes and you're out regulation…", Ilsa mused. With Ash in school they didn't need anyone staying back at the HQ all times. Apparently they had all decided to enjoy their renewed freedom by crowding the van.

"Is it just me or are you bored, too?", Chance asked.

"I could hire someone to attack you…", Ilsa replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I could declare it as a team building exercise in the tax declaration… and get extra funding from the board… I just need a euphemism for "assassin"…"

Ames started giggling and suddenly Ilsa couldn't hold back anymore, too.

Winston leaned back in his chair and watched the two women share a moment of long absent happiness. Only too well he remembered their faces at the funeral, Ames' tears, Ilsa's shaking shoulders… Guerrero by her side. Chance's hand on his son's shoulders.

Philippa was by no means forgotten, not at all – Guerrero's glaring absence spoke volumes. But they needed to move on.

To survive this, they needed to move on.

Not an easy lesson to teach Ash…

"Excuse me, Mr. Chance, would you mind putting those matches away?" Marybeth Tucker was looking a tiny bit concerned… yeah, well, alarmed… at the man who was claiming to be protecting her from a threat she still couldn't quite believe actually existed and all in all… was making her nervous.

Just then the fire alarm started to sound.

"Chance?", Winston asked.

"Not me…"

A fire alarm out of the blue, that just had to be the threat, FINALLY making a move.

Yes, he was a tiny bit jubilant.


	51. Chapter 51

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Fire alarms are great to initiate an attack, but the devil is in the details.

They definitely serve to flush out the people quickly. Military facilities, hospitals and elementary schools don't only have evacuation plans that look great on paper, they also regularly train them. With high schools it depends on the district. Where it's likely that a bunch of concerned parents regularly points out insufficient alarm practice to the school board, kids and teachers know the drill. Big companies also tend to put a lot of emphasis on the proper execution of fire alert procedures. Law suits are so damn costly…

In all those cases a fire alarm is only useful if you're planning an open attack, from an elevated observation point, for example with a long distance rifle, a scope and maybe a bit of strategically placed C4 explosives.

When you're aiming for a concealed attack setting off the fire alarm only makes sense in environments that don't have or don't practice regular alert procedures. In those contexts a sudden alarm most certainly guarantees the outbreak of massive chaos. It's only natural: Fire represents one of men's most primal fears. It speaks directly to the lizard part of the brain, invalidates social norms and brings out the cavemen strategies.

Unless there's a strong, very well-established hierarchy and/or chain of command, such as in military facilities, hospitals etc. etc. people start running to and fro either looking to protect themselves or desperately trying to save what's most dear to their heart. That _can _be loved ones such as spouses or children, but also material assets – money, laptops, sports trophies. Nothing reveals the state of a relationship better than a sudden emergency. If a wife finds her husband waiting outside, unscathed, no traces of soot on his white shirt while she got lost in a maze of corridors and only barely managed to get away, he better have a damn good explanation…

Anyway, when chaos breaks out, it is fantastically easy to sneak in, get past any kind of safety arrangements and mingle with the fleeing people. Nobody pays attention and in addition to that it's completely in accordance with the situation that persons bump into each other, stumble, fall… Before anyone realizes that somebody got murdered the perpetrator is already over the hills and far away.

So Chance and the others definitely knew what to look out for: Someone moving in the wrong direction, _into _the building instead of towards the exit, someone with a worried face but calm hands (this is one of the things that separates the pros from the amateurs – most assassins manage to fake emotions well when it comes to the face, but forget the rest of the body) or someone with eyes looking for a person instead of trying to find an exit. If someone with searching eyes but without calling for anybody roams the corridors, it's definitely time to bring the big guns in.

Chance couldn't wait.

But unfortunately, someone cheered too soon…

The fire alarm was false, so far, so good, but unfortunately not caused by the threat…

A law student, smoking in the restroom and foolishly trying to hide it by breathing into a plastic bottle.

Yeah, a real genius. But definitely the right amount of impertinence to go places in his future profession.

A promising trial lawyer in the making…

"Why can't they do this in their own facilities?", Marybeth Tucker exploded. "The university built them a complete high rise because every idiot wants to become a lawyer and foolish parents pay astronomical fees because they think one day their former rug rat will compensate them with a mansion and a heated outdoor pool!"

Chance watched her rant with utter fascination. This was the first time Marybeth had shown any real emotion at all.

"The linguistics department is crammed into ONE corridor with three little rooms. We were told to be GRATEFUL, can you believe that? And to add insult to injury, those big shot wannabes come HERE whenever they're up to some idiocy. For heaven's sake, these cockroaches will never do a day of useful work in their lives!"

_In contrast to the linguists' contribution to world peace, feeding the hungry and sealing the hole in the ozone layer…_, Chance thought but decided it was wiser not to say it out loud. There was something about her furious outbreak that made him wonder, but he couldn't quite pinpoint it.

"Why did you become a linguist?", he asked her as they trudged back to Marybeth's office. He expected a lengthy, pathetic explanation regarding the fundamental role of language in the world, but instead she remained silent almost till they crossed the threshold to her room again.

"I don't know", she finally said. "My parents wanted me to become something special. That is all they ever said. They never made demands, never tried to push me into a certain direction. See, my parents were both musicians, mom played the piano and dad was an opera singer, but they didn't make me learn even a single instrument. All their musician friends… when they had kids they influenced them to do something with music. Some of the kids hated it, some loved it, but they all got a chance to find out if they were any good in that field. I was just left alone and when I realized I WANTED to do something with music and learned to play the piano it was too late for a professional career, I should have started at a much younger age. You can never catch up on what you've missed out when you're young. The experiences you make as a child… they stay with you forever."

Chance thought of Ash and for a moment it felt to him as if the floor was slipping underneath his feet.

"Maybe in the end I became a linguist because in a nutshell words are sounds, too. I specify in researching possibilities of creating a global language, intuitively understood by everyone. Music is such a global language, but it's not detailed enough to transport differentiated messages – I'm trying to find a "word" equivalent of music… if you will I became the literature version of a musician…the closest I could find to become like my parents, I guess…"

She paused and looked out of the window, from a safe distance in case of a sniper, just like Chance had told her.

"Either you become exactly like your parents or the complete opposite. There's no middle-ground." Marybeth sat down and resumed working on her essay.

Chance sat down, too. He was no man for worship, but at that moment in Marybeth Tucker's office he prayed to everyone willing to listen that his son did not become like him.


	52. Chapter 52

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

After the false fire alarm and a completely uneventful night of watching/listening to Marybeth Tucker snore, Winston, with the help of Ames and Ilsa, had completed doing a full examination of her background: Finances, family, friends, colleagues, jobs, academic achievements, online activities, neighbors, recreational activities… They would have been faster with Guerrero, but Guerrero was still unavailable.

It was hard to tell how Ilsa was dealing with the situation. She never talked about her relationship with Guerrero. Only lately they had started showing their affection openly. With Philippa's demise that had come to a screeching halt again.

It was not only what he was about to do... cold blooded murder. A still abhorrent thought, to just... let it… happen… let him do this… More so, much more so, however, they were worried about Guerrero. In contrast to common perception, he didn't enjoy killing. He never let on what he felt, but Winston remembered his attempt at a confession while they had been in that deathtrap of a plane over the Andes well. The things he did… they _were _taking a toll on him.

Could they really just watch…?

But on the other hand… he had a point. Protecting Ash had always had top priority, for all of them. Now the enemy was not coming from the outside… they had to protect him from himself. No one was better at reading people than Guerrero and as much they would have preferred thinking of Ash as the little boy with the crazy ideas and the charming smile, Philippa's death had changed him. There was a darkness about him… the thirst for revenge was intoxicating, it could completely cloud your mind, make you throw away everything else… engulf you…

Both Guerrero and Chance had been there, done that.

Better not tempt Ash.

"Tell me you found something – anything – that involves organized crime. Or blackmail. Bribery!", Chance exclaimed rather desperately. He had brought Marybeth to the warehouse, insisting a change of location was very important for her personal safety. In truth he just hadn't wanted to sit through the annual meeting of Associated Californian Linguists with Caledonian Roots scheduled for the early afternoon.

Ames made a face. "Hate to disappoint you…"

"Insurance scam? Tax dodging?"

She shrugged helplessly, lopsided smile on her face. "Zilch."

"Shop lifting? Illegal parking?"

"We think at the department of linguistics' last Christmas party she might have claimed bringing home made muffins but they were actually from a local bakery…"

Ames was genuinely crestfallen.

Chance sighed, smiled and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Maybe it's all a mistake and SFPD was right from the start. The snitch might have made the whole thing up or overheard something wrongly."

The telephone in Winston's office rang. They heard Winston answer it, then nothing for quite a while. Apparently he was listening. Ames silently offered Chance a cup of coffee and Chance accepted it, equally silent. They both watched Winston frown, his facial expression growing graver and graver.

Instinct made Chance turn his head towards the far end of the office, where Ilsa was sitting with Marybeth. Was she alright? Bless her heart, brave Dr. Tucker was still working on her essay about pre-Celtic suffixes, despite the fact that her life was in danger, she was under the protection of a whole team of bodyguards and sitting holed up in a shady office in the Tenderloin.

Chance couldn't help but admire her dedication.

Winston hung up the phone.

"That was our contact at SFPD", he said. "Guerrero's still out of reach, is he?"

Chance gave him a questioning look. "Definitely. Why?"

"We need someone here to watch over her while you and I go sightseeing."

If Winston voluntarily suggested Guerrero should take over protection duties…

"Ames and Ilsa both know how to deal with guns." Chance rested his eyes on Ames. There was no doubt in his expression.

With a start Ames realized that he trusted her. Not just with his own life, but with _a client's_ life. When it came to Chance, there was no higher proof of his trust. She would not disappoint him.

Chance walked over to Ilsa and placed one of his guns in front of her. Marybeth Tucker was so deeply lost in her thoughts, she didn't even notice.

"Are you up to it?", he asked her quietly.

No need for further specification. Ilsa knew exactly what he meant. She took the gun and put it on the chair next to her, in direct reach.

"So which of Frisco's famous sights are we going to see?", Chance asked Winston.

"The world famous city morgue."

… … …

"You know the guy?", Lieutenant Peele asked, studying both Chance and Winston carefully. As usual, however he couldn't read their body language at all.

Which was good since they were about to lie to him.

"Never seen him", Chance shrugged.

"Nope", Winston confirmed.

In truth, of course, they knew him well. The bald mean with the extensive tattoos covering his chest and arms in greenish-blue prison ink went by the name Johnny the Shark.

Yeah, well… but it conveyed pretty well his work ethic and general attitude towards targets.

_Hunt 'em down and shred 'em. _

Anyway, it seemed his surging career as a hit man had come to an untimely and definite end now. One bullet to the temple, another one to the heart.

Someone had been thorough. Definitely a pro's handwriting.

Peele started skipping through the file in his hand. "This is what we found in his possession", he finally said and handed Chance and Winston several photos and copies with rows of data. The data consisted of telephone numbers, credit card numbers, all sorts of pin codes, addresses… the photos had all been taken from a distance, some through windows, and showed a middle-aged woman pouring over a book, a text, her lunch, another text.

Marybeth Tucker.

Someone had given one of the best assassins on the market a portfolio with all necessary info to eliminate her.

And someone else had eliminated said assassin.


	53. Chapter 53

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"What in the world are we supposed to do with two pounds of kiwi?", Ash asked, staring at the office fridge's content with an open frown. The pale light from the inside of the machine illuminated his face in a rather unbecoming way, deepening the shadows underneath his eyes and cheekbones. It looked grave, gaunt, too old for a fifteen year old boy.

Chance watched his son with deep concern. Ash had kept his part of their deal – he was going to school and his grades were okay. No skipped classes, no behavioral problems, no failed tests or undone homework. But he was spending hours in the gym, punching bag training. And he had started jogging, for hours. Rain, mist, heavy wind, it didn't matter, he ran. At times he was accompanied by Isamu, on roller skates or by bike, but every few days Ash went off alone. Chance hated that – they were living in the Tenderloin, after all – but on the other hand he did understand his son's need to be alone.

They kept an eye on him through hacked surveillance cam feeds. In addition to that Guerrero had suggested a tracker in his running shoes, but Ash was no idiot. He knew how to use a bug finder and they had several of these available in the office. If he discovered they were following him around… they already had had a huge row about this, rather early after Philippa's death, when Ash had found out they were watching over him on his way to school.

"You think I can't take care of myself!", he had accused his father angrily. "You don't trust me!"

Very tricky situation, since Ash most likely blamed himself for Philippa's death. She had caught the bullet meant for him because she had apparently thought he wouldn't be able to take care of himself.

"Of course I do", Chance had finally replied, after an awkward moment of silence.

"Then leave me THE HELL alone!"

And they did. With a heavy heart, but they did. Except for the surveillance cams.

"Kiwis are very healthy", Ames replied, thinking how odd this sounded, coming from her. For decades she couldn't have cared less about healthy food and now she was suddenly thinking about Chance's cholesterol level (yeah, as if it was likely that he'd die of a heart attack) and preventing Ash from vitamin deficiency. He was living off too much junk food lately.

Jeez, "too much junk food"? _Who are you and what did you do to the real me? _Ames shook her head at herself.

"Only if you actually eat them", Ash grumbled and retrieved a carton of chow mein from the fridge. "The only one around here willing to eat that much of that hairy stuff would be Guerrero. Where is he anyway? Haven't seen him much lately."

"Job out of town", Chance shrugged as casually as possible. "He said he'd be away for a while."

Ames threw him a sympathetic glance. She knew how hard it was for Chance not being able to tell his son the truth. To change the subject, she started rustling with the sheets of Marybeth Tucker's file that she and Chance had spread all over the kitchen table.

"This just doesn't make any sense", Ames sighed in resignation. We checked her complete background - finances, family, friends, anyone she's ever dated – now that was a short list – colleagues, jobs, academic achievements, online activities, neighbors, hobbies… No matter where we turned, we always came up with nothing. There's absolutely no explanation why someone should try to kill her and someone else should try to protect her."

"Maybe somebody is lying", Ash said.

Both Chance and Ames were too well trained to show it, but his words shook them to the core. In the first moment of shock they both thought Ash was talking about them. Then they realized he had meant the case.

"If all elements seem to fit together but the picture they form doesn't make any sense, one of the elements must be false", Ash said, leaning back against the kitchen worktop and picking cold chow mein from the carton in his hands.

Chance briefly closed his eyes, but it was too late, the image had already made it to his inner eye – the way Ash was leaning against the counter, eating, that was Guerrero… the way he looked, the eyes, the hair, the face, that was he, Chance himself… and his son's conclusion regarding the case… that was Baptiste… or Joubert…

Chance's stomach turned to ice.

"I'd start with the family", Ash continued, apparently completely unaware of Ames' and his father's discomfort. "The near and dear ones, that's where you usually find the most secrets. Funny. People who love each other seem to be much more inclined to lie to each other than strangers. Guess it's about not wanting to hurt any feelings…"

Ames and Chance exchanged alarmed glances. Did he know the truth? Had he found out about Chance's true identity? But he surely wouldn't just stand there and allude to it so casually, while eating cold take away food, would he? Ash was not like that, not so cold and calculating… on the other hand… there was no way to tell how much witnessing Philippa's death had changed him.

"Who in the world taught you _that_?", Chance all but croaked, making an effort to sound like he was joking.

"Grandpa", Ash shrugged, threw the carton into the garbage can and walked off.

"One day I'll kill him", Chance muttered under his breath as soon as Ash was out of earshot. "If he pulls any more shit like that…"

"Ash sees him as his grandfather…", Ames reminded him quietly. "And at the moment he's pretty busy protecting him, remember?"

Yes, Chance remembered. The Old Man and Baptiste were out to eliminate Brax. News had come through the grapevine about 24 hours ago that Brax had had to be admitted to hospital thanks to a strange bacterial infection.

They seemed to be making progress.


	54. Chapter 54

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Of course Ash was right. If somebody in Marybeth Tucker's environment was lying about certain aspects of her past or present life, it was most likely one of her very near and dear ones.

Guerrero, had he been there, could have probably provided an empirically established figure supporting that statement.

So they went back to Marybeth's parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Tucker, I really don't want to intrude myself into your affairs and I also absolutely don't intend to touch on sensitive family matters, but your daughter's life is on the line."

Ilsa was all but pleading with the Tuckers. The assassin that had apparently been sent to kill Marybeth had, according to Chance and a short text message from Guerrero, been a very dangerous individual. Only God knew whom they were going to send next, whoever "they" was.

She could really do without Chance's life at risk so soon after all the heartbreak with Philippa. The idea behind taking this particular case had been to take it slow, to get back to business step by step. And now they were dealing with one dead assassin, apparently assassinated by another assassin, and the high possibility that another, even more dangerous one was going after their client.

Not to mention the fact that the interpretation that Johnny the Shark had been murdered by someone who wanted to protect Marybeth was only one option. There was also the chance that someone had put out a ransom on her and Johnny had simply fallen prey to a competitor who wanted to eliminate all confounding factors before going for the kill itself.

"We really appreciate what you're doing for Marybeth, Mrs. Pucci, but you've got to believe us that we would not hold back any information, no matter how painful, embarrassing or horrendous, if it would help to keep our daughter safe. There is really nothing left that we haven't already told you." The Tuckers looked genuinely crestfallen and at their wits' end.

Ilsa sighed and glanced at Winston. Time for Plan B.

She so wished it hadn't had to come to this.

"Well, in that case, would you agree to a polygraph test?" Winston did his best, but there really was no way to make a sentence like that sound not offensive.

Mr. Tucker shook his head with an angry snort, but his wife put a calming hand on his knee. "If it helps Marybeth…"

Winston went to get the polygraph from the van.

Her parents might have not objected, but Marybeth, who had been impatiently waiting in the dining room with Ames, sure did. Her usually exceptionally polite and collected behavior completely changed the moment she laid her eyes on the device in Winston's arms.

"YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!", she shouted at him at the top of his lungs. "THESE ARE MY PARENTS AND YOU'RE TREATING THEM LIKE CRIMINALS?"

"Well, maybe they are and that's why somebody is trying to kill you. Out of revenge or to somehow weaken them…", Ames chimed in rather nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.

"EXCUSE ME? DID YOU JUST SERIOUSLY IMPLY THAT MY PARENTS COULD BE SOME CLOSET AL CAPONES AND I JUST HAVEN'T NOTICED YET?"

"You never really know with anyone, especially not with your own family."

Only someone who had been around Ames for a while, like Winston, could have noticed the brief shadow passing over her face as she spoke those words. He knew she had remembered her father, the bastard who had tried to kill her in order to save her half-brother.

"This ends here and now." Marybeth Tucker, in probably the bravest stunt she had ever pulled in her life so far, stepped between Winston and the door. "There's no way my father will be subjected to a polygraph test."

"Ms. Tucker…" Ames got up and reached for her. Marybeth lashed out at her. Ames tried to grab her by the shoulder. Winston knocked down two of the dining table chairs, then hurried to unobtrusively hold the door closed. The Tuckers, alerted by the turmoil, predictably tried getting into the room and when they couldn't they started yelling and banging against the door. They probably would have tried calling the cops, hadn't Chance blocked all telephone lines from the outside during Ilsa's conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Tucker.

He was crouching hidden in the dark now, watching the struggle in the dining room from behind one of Mrs. Tucker's prizewinning rose bushes, ready to jump into action any moment. So far, however, their plan didn't seem to work out. Nothing was moving in the garden and Winston and Ames wouldn't be able to keep up their charade much longer before Mr. Tucker ran for an axe from the garage or something in that direction. Luckily he didn't own a gun, at least no officially registered one, they had checked that beforehand. If he owned an unregistered one, though, things could turn really ugly….

There! Finally! A shadow on the deck, smoothly moving like a cat's, only much bigger. Chance wasted no time – he lifted his tazer gun, aimed and pulled the trigger.

The shadow materialized as a darkly clad man of average build but with muscular shoulders and a heavy caliber gun. He was even wearing a bullet proof vest, but Chance had aimed well – the man's unprotected left thigh had taken the hit.

Convulsing helplessly he lay on the ground, completely unable to defend himself in any way, shape or form. Chance quickly disarmed him before banging against the window, letting Ames and Winston know that they could stop provoking poor Marybeth Tucker now.

… … …

"Could you PLEASE explain what all this is about?" Mr. Tucker would have probably been beside himself with anger, hadn't he been completely overwhelmed by the fact that a heavily armed man had just been caught in his garden and was sitting in his dining room, tied up to one of his dining room chairs.

"We still assume that one of the parties involved in Marybeth's life is lying, but we just couldn't figure out which – so we decided to go the other way and ask the one person who probably knew: The killer of the killer", Winston explained. "Of course this only works if our killer's killer is really here to protect Marybeth – if he's after a ransom and just wanted to make sure Johnny the Shark didn't beat him to it…."

"So", Chance said, smiling at the tied up man. "Why did you come here? To kill or to protect?"


	55. Chapter 55

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: THANK YOU niagaraweasel and pocketsevens for your input!**_

"I'm not going to tell you anything", the bound man snarled. "No matter what you're planning to do to me, trust me, the people who hired me are ten times worse."

"I wouldn't bet on that…", Winston mumbled, throwing an uneasy glance at Ames.

"A challenge! Now, how cool is that?"

Ames put her hands on her hips and leaned towards the man on the chair with an amused twinkle in her eyes, studying him as if he was some sort of interesting beetle.

Of course she made sure she was far enough away from his face that he couldn't suddenly snap his head forward and break her nose or bite her. Guerrero was a brutal teacher, but you did learn from him, boy, did you learn.

"I really love challenges", she added in a mock purr. Then she took the taser from Chance and pointed it in a more -um- central location... "I wouldn't have aimed for your thigh. Now talk or I BBQ the boys."

"I don't need to remind you that the Marshall Pucci foundation has a certain policy towards torture and human rights, do I?", Ilsa anxiously asked Ames.

"Because it made such a difference the last ten times you did…", Winston muttered.

"Maybe you should leave the room…", Chance told Ilsa.

"We still have five law suits pending – FIVE!", she protested, shoulders already slumping in defeat.

"Are you planning to torture him?", Mr. Tucker asked cautiously, eyeing the captive and his daughter's bodyguards with equal worry.

"Are you very fond of this carpet?" Chance used the tip of his foot to turn a corner of it over. "The stains are usually hard to remove, even with one of those oxy action cleaners."

"If you're not too fond of it, the size would be perfect for later… wrap up… you know…" Ames looked at the carpet with an appreciative nod.

"I'm NOT hearing this! I'm NOT hearing this!" Ilsa threw her hands up in complete desperation.

"Oh, and if you do have any of these oxy action cleaners it would be great if you could lend me some… they truly work miracles…" Ames was broadly grinning now.

"I'm going to text the lawyers that they're in for an all-nighter…", Ilsa sighed.

"We… ugh… prefer environment friendly products…", Mrs. Tucker stuttered. "Would tabs for the dishwasher do?"

"With a bucket of water…" Ames nodded at Chance to help her remove the carpet. Mrs. Tucker scurried out of the room

Mr. Tucker and Marybeth just looked at them, all of them, with eyes the size of saucers.

"If you think you can scare me…", the captive started.

At this very moment, the telephone rang.

"Number suppressed", Mr. Tucker read from the display.

Chance took the call and put it on speaker so that the others would know what was going on.

In hindsight, that would turn out to have been a mistake.

"You've made the acquaintance of one of our employees", an ominous voice said darkly. "He wasn't supposed to do any harm to Ms. Tucker. It would be great if you could take that into consideration…"

"So far no damage done…", Chance replied. "All we need to know is _who_ and _why_. To flush out the threat and keep Ms. Tucker safe for good. We can't watch over her forever."

"We've neutralized the threat half an hour ago ", the voice said. "Permanently. We were just on the verge of calling our employee back. Thank you for watching over Marybeth, Mr. Chance."

"So this is it?", Mr. Tucker blurted out. "My daughter's life was threatened, at least two people died, if I understood you correctly, and now it's all over, just like that? Without any explanation?"

"Trust us, Mr. Tucker", said the voice. "You don't want an explanation. Just keep living your life like you used to do."

"But that's impossible. You people… brought a gorilla to the table… why was Marybeth threatened? What did my daughter do? Could it happen again?" Mr. Tucker was beside himself with worry.

Mrs. Tucker came back into the dining room with the tabs and a bucket of water. She heard the voice on the phone and froze. Marybeth walked up to her and took her in her arms.

"Don't I deserve an explanation?", Marybeth spoke up. "Don't I deserve to know why somebody wanted me dead?"

The voice on the phone hesitated for a moment, then: "If you really insist, Marybeth, then we'll tell you. But know that afterwards nothing will ever be the same."

Chance felt a cold shiver running down his spine. There was something about this situation… Ames was suddenly by his side and took his hand.

"I insist", Marybeth said.

For a long while the voice said nothing. Then: "Please keep in mind that I warned you." The voice fell silent again, for at least a minute before it finally continued.

"Thirty-eight years ago, when you were born, you were not born to the Tuckers. You were born to a young prostitute who had accidentally become pregnant from one of our bosses. He knew that you would never grow up in peace if he let her keep you, so he took you away from her and exchanged you with another baby that had been born at the hospital in the same night, almost at the same hour. Another girl. The Tucker's daughter."

Mr. and Mrs. Tucker gasped in horror at this completely unforeseen revelation. The voice just kept talking.

"It turned out our boss' worries were well-founded. Half a year later the prostitute and the girl died when a bomb exploded underneath their car. An act of revenge for some… business decisions… that didn't go down well with everyone. You were safe for many years, Marybeth, because the Tuckers raised you as their own. Unfortunately now someone found out. We hope we managed to stop him before he could spread the word."

The caller hung up on them, leaving a room full of completely shocked people.

"They killed our daughter? My baby is dead?" Mrs. Tucker's legs gave way. Winston caught her. He had to carry her into the living-room and place her on the sofa. Mr. Tucker kneeled by her side. Both were crying.

Marybeth was crying, too. But no one was by her side. Opposite her parents she stood, speechless, helpless, horrified. "Their daughter was killed for me", she whispered. "It's my fault a baby died."

Ilsa embraced her and told her that she had had absolutely no control over the situation, being a baby herself. She repeated several times that the circumstances she had been born under were not her fault.

But they could all tell from Marybeth's face that she was not buying it a bit.

When they left the Tucker's house that evening, it left a bad taste in everybody's mouth. Marybeth's life lay in ruins.

Would she and her family ever get over this? Or would the Tuckers from now on forever blame her for the death of the real Marybeth?

Where would she go from here? The road that way lying ahead of her was damn dark and rocky.

When Chance came home he sat down by sleeping Ash's side for a long time.


	56. Chapter 56

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Contrary to common perception and the reputation he had built over the years, Guerrero didn't enjoy torturing people.

And for once it had nothing to do with his friendship to Chance.

Never ever, not even in his worst days of juvenile anger, had inflicting pain on other human beings been fun to him.

Violence was something that always came back to haunt you and bite you in the ass. Guerrero was no bible thumper, but there was definitely some truth to_ they sow the wind and reap the whirlwind_. Executing violence on someone almost certainly led to revenge, if not by the victim himself then by his folks.

Bad people have friends and relatives, too. No one takes kindly to a loved one being exposed to pain and suffering, even if he was a bastard.

So the first rule of torture was _use only when absolutely necessary_.

It was tempting to resort to violence to get a result, especially when time was pressing and the supposed-to-be source of knowledge stubborn. But shortcuts could make long delays, at least if you took the second rule of torture to heart: _Always clean up after yourself._

Raising fear, implying that one _could_ use torture when necessary was much more effective. No tedious cleaning up afterwards and less risk of causing a retaliation campaign. A lot of productive things could happen if you put a gun to someone's head.

There was a difference between not enjoying torture and not feeling bad about it, though. Pretty much the same difference that was between not enjoying to kill someone and not feeling bad about it.

"I swear that's all I know!", the young man bound to the chair in front of him cried. Blood and sweat were running down his face and bare chest in thick streams. The electric shocks had made him lose control over his bladder. There was also vomit on the floor.

Sometimes there was no way around having to clean up.

On the other hand, since they were in Guerrero's completely tiled private dungeon with built-in drainage in the floor and lots of bleach in the storage room, the amount of extra work was manageable.

"Brax blackmailed the city council. He told them San Francisco would be buried under a series of unsolvable crimes if they didn't pay him. Don't know how much money he asked for, but it was a lot." The young man's voice was choked with tears and terror. Eyes wide with panic he summarized once more what Guerrero had forced out of him within the past few hours.

An unnecessary act. Guerrero's memory worked just fine. He didn't forget things.

Guerrero was familiar with the phenomenon, though. A lot of people seemed to be of the opinion that as long as they just kept talking, they wouldn't get killed.

He busied himself behind his captive's back, rummaging around in his tackle box as if he was looking to retrieve another instrument of torture.

"The bank robbery was intended as a demonstration of Brax' powers - in and out with SFPD reduced to the role of a helpless bystander. That's why the policemen besieged the bank; the mayor had ordered them to not let us escape under any circumstances. He wanted to prove to Brax that his crimes would not go unpunished. Of course he underestimated him. The tunnel had been built months in advance." The ex-robber's neck was slightly reddish from sunburn. He must have been to a beach shortly before Guerrero had caught him. How old was he? Twenty-two, twenty four maybe.

Pity.

"We weren't supposed to kill someone. No one ever said anything about murder during the planning stage. It was just in, stick around a little to demonstrate what Brax could do and out again, I swear." The young man's pleading voice climbed another octave.

"I really didn't overhear any part of the telephone conversation between Brax and Walter. All I know is that a call came in and suddenly there's the dead woman on the floor. If I had known the whole shit would lead to murder, I would have never taken the job, never! Brax must have decided that spontaneously, maybe because there was suddenly such a fuss outside, with FBI and all. Maybe Brax wanted to punish the mayor for involving so many people. I'm very, very sorry that woman died!"

Of course he was sorry now. Considering what Guerrero had done to him in the course of the past few hours, everything else would have been a surprise.

The young man had been the stubborn kind of information source.

On the other hand, given Brax' reputation of what he did to traitors, an understandable attitude. Only last month a snitch had been burned alive in his car that had been rumored, only RUMORED to have sold some minor, irrelevant piece of information to the police. Just like Guerrero, Brax was a firm believer in the doctrine of fear. The more people were convinced he would mercilessly retaliate, the less inclined they were to let anything leak.

Until, of course, someone with a car battery came and changed their priorities.

"I promise I won't tell a soul about today. I sure as hell won't go to the police. All I want is to get back to my wife and kid. See, it was for my son that I..." The ex-robber tried to turn around and look his captor in the face, since it still sounded as if he was sorting his instruments on the table behind his back, but he was tied up too tightly, he couldn't move an inch, couldn't see what Guerrero was doing.

It was better that way.

Silently, with one fluid movement, Guerrero drew his gun, released the safety catch, aimed at the young man's neck and pulled the trigger.

Tomorrow he'd sent the wife money and instructions where the police could find the body.

Without a proof of death you can't cash in on a spouse's life insurance.


	57. three

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ three ~**_

It wasn't a coincidence that "mob" referred to both, an angry crowd of people _and _a highly organized network of criminals. For once Chance and the team weren't faced with having to fight the latter. No Tony Belvilacqua, no Hugh Prentiss this time around… Just nameless faces, taut with rage.

Initially, an odd job had brought them to Greece, some trouble with Harry, a kidnapped poodle and an opera singer named Lise with a _very _theatric streak…

Just don't ask.

They had managed to free Harry from his prison before he drowned in …

Again, don't ask.

The poodle had been reunited with Lise, unshaved (!) and Lise herself, after a candlelight dinner with Winston – yes, Winston – actually pacified.

Back in San Francisco Ash was home alone… as alone as someone under Guerrero's watchful eyes could be. Thanks to his extracurricular activities Guerrero wasn't physically present at the office, but the boy was far from unprotected.

Nevertheless Chance was more than happy now that the job was done. Last time they had been out of the country they had lost Philippa. He still remembered vividly the agonizing helplessness he had experienced on the way back. A race against time and they had lost.

It seemed Ash was slowly learning to deal with the situation. No behavioral problems at school, his grades were okay… Helen seemed to be good for him.

Yes, they allowed her to visit regularly.

Ilsa's jet was already waiting. They could have ignored the smoke billowing heavenwards from Athens' financial district in throwing distance of the Acropolis. But after one week in Greece they had seen enough of the country's state to hesitate.

Greece was a nation in deep crisis.

Oddly enough the word "crisis" derived from Ancient Greek κρίσις krísis - it was as if it had now come home to dwell permanently where its roots lay. While trying to retrieve the goddamn poodle, Chance and the others had talked to lots and lots of people... and they had gotten to hear the same heartbreaking stories over and over again. The kidnapper himself, a middle-aged man with spectacles and shaking fingers had been so deeply affected by the current state of his country's economy that he hadn't seen another way - he had turned to crime to feed his family.

"What was I supposed to do? In the past two years the government raised taxes on the one hand and slashed pensions and state salaries on the other! I've got eight hundred Euros less each month now! My parents are scraping by with cuts of over four hundred Euros a month. Only last week the government announced they would put 30.000 workers on reduced pay... everybody knows it's just foreplay to layoffs later! And more pension cuts for nearly half a million public-sector retirees!"

In addition to all that the government had also introduced a new tax on private property. The house the kidnapper lived in with his wife, three kids and his parents was all they had left. The new tax would cost them two thousand Euros a year, money they simply didn't have, especially not with the costs of living dramatically rising. The kidnapper, as the property owner, had been looking at jail time prior to the taking of the poodle.

They hadn't reported him to the police.

And they had "accidentally" left the ransom in his possession. Ilsa later compensated the opera singer.

That night, however, Chance had found her crying on the balcony of the hotel room right next to his and Ames'.

"These people are falling into an abyss... they're slowly drowning... unemployment, complete devaluation of savings, breakdown of all public services... this country is sinking into chaos and with all my money, there's nothing I can do!"

Chance had climbed from his balcony to hers with one fluid motion and had taken her into his arms, knowing that she was experiencing the same helplessness that he had felt regarding Ash on that fateful flight back to San Francisco. Ilsa could be a tough boss and demanded effort and dedication from her employees, but she also cared about people. The horrible damages to the cities of the East Coast after it had been hit by that horrendous hurricane had broken her heart, but back then the Marshall Pucci Foundation had at least been able to help.

This time around the problem was much more deeply rooted. For decades tax evasion, corruption and a blown way out of proportion bureaucracy had weakened the country like termites working their way through a wooden building, slowly but thoroughly. When in addition to those structural flaws greedy bank investments with securities that weren't worth the paper they were printed on had blown up into the bankers' faces the whole thing had come down like a house of cards in an earthquake.

No death retardant specialist could help here, no motley crew of (half-) reformed criminals… theoretically this was what politics were invented for, this should have been the hour of the politicians, determined to find a solution through well thought out measures, careful negotiations and deep dedication to their cause.

Unfortunately they much more made the impression of a bunch of headless chickens, running around madly, than of knowledgeable leaders with the best interest of the people they were supposed to represent in mind.

Thanks to their hectic and blind activism public services, among other things, were reduced to a minimum by now. So when Chance and the others saw the smoke obscuring the view of the Acropolis, they couldn't just keep on driving to the airport and leave. They knew only too well that most likely three quarters of Athens' fire trucks weren't ready for a run, be it due to disrepair or simply lack of fuel.

And that smoke looked like it was coming from a damn big fire…

The driver of the limousine Ilsa had rented initially refused to bring them to the financial district. A monetary bonus quickly changed his mind, though.

When they arrived at the market place that represented the center of the district, surrounded by all the big banks, they knew why their driver had been so scared. The area was packed with people.

Angry, stone-throwing, club swinging people.

And they had set one of the banks on fire.


	58. Chapter 58

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"You two will stay in the car and drive straight to the airport. We'll catch up a.s.a.p."

Chance's voice was no-nonsense, the expression on his face stern.

"Did I make myself clear?"

No reply, neither from Ilsa nor from Ames.

Chance stifled a sigh. Outside the car, only a few hundred yards away, at least one building was burning down and a very angry crowd of people was about to wreak havoc on the whole neighborhood.

"Now, I don't expect Ilsa to actually follow logical and well-founded _advice_ from somebody far more experienced in the field than she'll ever be, but you, _you_ know better. That's a powder keg ready to explode out there and I don't want you anywhere near it", he tried his luck with Ames.

Still no response. Just two very determined women with clenched jaws, dark eyes practically boring into him and arms crossed. They were practically trembling with anger about the boys' envisaged solo run. The air was still all but sizzling with the electricity from the shouting match they had had only moments before.

"Goddamn it, we're running out of time! Somebody out there is bound to need help and so far no sign at all of any kind of police or firefighters!", Winston yelled at them.

That did it. He was right. This was not the moment to challenge Chance's notorious protection instinct regarding his own team members. Grumbling, Ames and Ilsa both mumbled a barely audible "We'll wait at the airport."

_But once you get home…_

Chance and Winston jumped out of the car and headed towards the market place. The limousine driver quickly revved up the engine and shot away from the turmoil, as fast as possible.

He didn't get very far, though.

"Wait! Wait!", Ilsa shouted. "There are the fire trucks! But what are they doing? Why are they just standing there?"

The firemen were quite flabbergasted when a fancy limousine pulled up in front of them with two foreign ladies popping out of the back and questioning in an awful mixture of guide book Greek and English why the hell they weren't present at the marketplace – there was a building burning, for heaven's sake!

Now, the firefighters were proud men, they sure as hell were not willing to take crap from clueless womenfolk.

"We haven't been paid for two months! All of us are barely scraping by with side jobs, off the books!" – "The market place is full of mad people. The police can't protect us, those forces that are still left are at the railway station, there's another demonstration going on, it's threatening to spin out of control!" – "Our families can't afford losing us… who will win the bread if we don't?"

Their English was strange, but their worries were real.

They did have a point.

"Then give us the key to the truck!", Ames demanded. Her heart was galloping madly in her chest. The image of Chance running towards the heart of the madness was still haunting her. He and his goddamn stubbornness! "Just the keys – we'll deal with the rest!" Not that she had any idea how to operate a fire truck, but it couldn't be rocket science, could it?

"Take my necklace! And the ring!" Ilsa started taking her jewelry off, tried handing it to the firemen.

Now that struck a note. They were _fire men._ They had sworn to protect and to serve. Had they really sunk so low that they needed _bribe_ to fulfill their duty?

A few seconds later the truck was racing towards the market place.

… … …

One thing was very clear to Chance and Winston from the very beginning. Although they were both armed, and not lightly, it would be impossible for them to actually use their guns in the crowd. They'd cause a veritable stampede, with the possibility of hundreds of people getting trampled to death.

The risk was already extremely high. Although the place was so tightly packed that they could barely make it to the burning building, there was no standstill, everyone was constantly moving, yelling, picking up things from the ground and throwing them against the walls of the buildings behind which the very decisions had been made that were now taking away everything they had worked for so hard, ruining their own future and that of their children.

Their fury was understandable.

But there were _people _behind those walls. Living, breathing, scared to death people.

One of them was breaking through the glass entrance doors of the burning bank just as Chance and Winston had finally made it to the front line of the attackers. The man wore the remnants of a business suit. No jacket, his tie a ridiculous piece of tattered cloth, his formerly white shirt blackened with soot. He was desperately gasping for air. The smoke inside the building had to be horrendous.

Now, the really dangerous thing about mobs is that nobody is responsible. The individual becomes part of a big, amorphous mass, the lizard part of the brain takes over, the most primitive instincts gain dominance, social inhibitions get shot to hell. As soon as the crowd caught sight of the banker a hail of stones came down on him, hitting his head, the hands he raised to protect his face… he toppled over and fell to the ground.

Chance and Winston tried to break through to him, but suddenly the people around them starting closing in on them, pushing against them, squashing them – they were preventing them from coming to the man's help! The force behind the shoves they received was unbelievable. Both Winston and Chance were not lightweights, but the crowd played with them like waves with a cork on water.

It was so goddamn tempting to just pull the guns and shoot their way through, but they couldn't, they just couldn't let their lizard parts of the brain take over, too. If they used their guns they'd cause a mass panic. With all those high walls enclosing the market place lots of people would be condemned to a terrible death.

Dealing punches left and right, Winston and Chance fought their way through the last line, deliberately breaking bones, especially noses – they had to hurt them, and significantly. Injured people are far more inclined to stop attacking while people that only feel a bit of pain often feel instigated.

The banker was writhing in pain when they finally got to him. Bloody foam was coming out of his mouth and nose.

"Third floor! The conference room on the right! They are trapped there!" He sounded like a drowning man, and he probably was, drowning from too much blood in his lungs.

Just as Chance desperately tried CPR while Winston fought with all his might to ward off the people still pressing in, the crowd parted like the red sea – a fire truck was plowing right through it, air horns blaring.

"Somebody named Ames and Ilsa sent us. They wanted me to point out that they did not set foot on the market place", a fire man told Chance.

… … …

The fire men rescued the banker's co-workers just in time before the smoke from the fire reached the conference room. Their bosses had locked the upper part of the building, thus they hadn't been able to get up on the roof. If their colleague hadn't bravely faced the fire and the mob, they'd all have suffocated.

Unfortunately he paid for his bravery with his life. The banker died in hospital, on a gurney in a corridor because they had no place else to stash him. The government had reduced funding for medical facilities, too.

As much as Ilsa had reveled in defying Chance's orders, the man's death hit her hard, and again she felt almost throttled by desperation. With all her money she couldn't help these people!

"Do you want to know what would cure all that? All that despair and hopelessness?", an elderly man suddenly asked her. She had been lost in thought, staring out of one of the hospital windows.

"I'll deliver a speech in London tomorrow. Maybe you want to attend." He handed her a card.


	59. Chapter 59

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

According to his card, the elderly man was Nikos Alexiou, a professor emeritus of economics who had spent the last twenty years of his professional career teaching at the National and Kapodestrian University of Athens.

"I could have gone to Stamford or Cambridge", he explained, stroking his white, rather longish beard. "There have been offers. But it somehow felt wrong. I wanted to give something back to the country that raised me and provided me with everything I needed to become what I was. I've told students all my life that it's wrong to take resources from one country and make use of them to the benefit of another. What kind of a teacher would I have been, had I not lived what I was preaching?"

Ilsa felt a bit reminded of JK Rowling's Albus Dumbledore, the way Professor Alexiou was standing there, smiling at her, his snow white hair flowing freely down his shoulders, a twinkle in his eyes and nevertheless the air of a well-read scholar about him.

His lecture was going to be about corporate tax avoidance and he needed a ride or, more precisely, a flight to London. He must have overheard Winston making some reference regarding the jet waiting at the airport while they had been sitting with the poor banker.

Ilsa was glad to help out.

… ... …

When Ames heard about their travel companion, she expected a really dull flight. Surely the professor would give them an extended preview of his upcoming speech. Weren't all scholars like that? Those who she had met through working with the team had all loved to hear themselves talk. Even polite, shy Marybeth Tucker hadn't refrained from giving her a detailed introduction to the subtleties of the New Caledonian prefixes when she had made the mistake to ask what her next book would be about.

Ames had never gone to college. Truth to be told, she hadn't even finished high school. Sometimes when she watched Ash study, saw him – at fifteen! – slowly become more learned and knowledgeable than she'd ever be, she wondered if she was really missing out on something. Chance was so damn smart and knew so much about all sorts of stuff… would he one day get bored with her and turn to someone less dumb? Someone who had read all those books he had read?

On the other hand books just weren't her thing. Or sitting in a classroom, for that matter, listening to someone talk without end about stuff she would never need in real life. She could spend hours figuring out how to pick a certain lock or outwitting an alarm system. But lectures? At a college?

Ames wondered if Ilsa would make them attend the professor's speech once they were in London. As dead tired as she felt after the intermezzo in the financial district, the heartbreaking hours at the hospital with the dying banker and the overall worry about Chance who never took lightly to someone dying practically under his hands, she'd probably fall sound asleep the moment they sat down in what she imagined to be a darkened lecture hall, making a fool of herself and embarrassing the team.

When Professor Alexiou picked the seat in front of her, of all spots available in the jet, she inwardly groaned. He had probably sensed her illiteracy and wanted to do something about it to prepare her properly for her speech.

Instead he just said there, smiled at her and drank the tea Guerrero had made for him.

After a while Ames couldn't stand it anymore.

"You told Ilsa you knew a cure for Greece. What does corporate tax avoidance have to do with that? Are the Greeks in that mess because the companies didn't pay their taxes?"

He looked at her, his eyes twinkled and his smile broadened. "You are a very smart person", he said. "In a nutshell, you're absolutely right. See, some people see taxes as unlawful thievery. They regard tax collection as a modern form of robber baronry. What do you think about that point of view?"

Ames wondered if that was a gotcha question. It was way too easy to answer. "Taxes are supposed to finance public stuff – police, schools, roads, hospitals…"

The professor's appreciative smile made her smile, too.

"Absolutely correct. Now what happens if people don't pay their dues?" He chuckled. "I know you can answer the question, so I'll make it a little more difficult: Use the image of a snowball to explain it to me."

SNOWBALL? What the…?

Now Ames was at a loss. On the other hand she felt kind of challenged. He was confident she knew the answer. And she did, actually – if people stopped paying taxes the whole system of society broke down, just like they had witnessed firsthand in Greece mere hours ago. But what in the world did a snowball have to do with that?

An image of her childhood came back to her, a bright white ball, flying through the air, hitting Brody in the chest, him diving down and collecting snow from the ground for retaliation…

Maybe the image was wrong.

On the same day they had built a snowman in the yard of one of the foster families they had been stuck with. Brody had started rolling a snowball over the ground and it had grown and grown…

"The fewer taxes are paid, the more debts the government runs up", she said.

"Very good", the professor nodded. "But there's more to it."

_More to it… more to it… _Ames frowned, trying to think of another snowball effect.

"With low tax revenues the taxes will inevitably go up for the honest payers?", she ventured.

Again the professor nodded. "You're on a roll. Now one last aspect. I'm sure you'll figure that one out, too."

Oh that was tough. But Ames felt so proud of having solved so much of the question, she didn't want to fall short so close to getting it completely right.

What else could there be?

Oh yes, of course!

"The more people don't pay their taxes the less the honest payers feel inclined to keep coughing up… they jump ship and stop paying, too."

"You are a very smart young lady", the professor praised her. "Think about that last statement some more. What would frustrate you more? If your neighbor, an elderly lady with a small pension would stop paying taxes or if the company that built that impressive skyscraper in the center of the town and whose managers all have limousines with their own drivers at their command paid no taxes?"

Not _that _was a truly easy question!

Ames never got to answer it, though. The pilot announced that they were going to touch down, Ilsa came over to discuss some details regarding his accommodation with the professor (he needed a hotel room, too) and in no time they were out in the airport's underground parking garage, ready to get into two limousines ordered by Ilsa.

Just then a car suddenly shot past them, wheels screeching, engine howling – and someone from the passenger's seat shot at them. The attack came out of nowhere and although Chance and Guerrero both managed to hit the fleeing vehicle with a bullet, it escaped… and Professor Alexiou was lying dead on the ground.


	60. Chapter 60

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: I'm terribly, terribly sorry that the updates are taking me so long right now. Please forgive me… life is a bit complicated right now but well, it's always darkest before dawn. Things will get better.**_

_If you tell someone I told you this, dude, you'll regret it. _

The professor's death had left them all in utter disbelief.

_I won't… I'm rather fond of my knee caps. _

They hadn't seen it coming. They just hadn't seen it coming.

_Don't look at the eyes. _

The attack had come out of nowhere. They had gotten out of the jet. Customs and border control had required that they made a short trip from the runway to the airport's main building. That's where it happened… a sniper attack, long distance rifle, most likely from somewhere by the private hangars.

The professor jerked from the impact when the bullet hit his cerebral cortex. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

No chance in hell they could have prevented that.

But still….

_Seriously, _that's _your advice? _

_What dude, too complicated for you? _

_It's just…big bad Guerrero doesn't look at the eyes? Doesn't sound like you. _

_What would sound like me then, Junior?_

_"Always use iron weights to keep a body down… custom-made bullets are great as long as they don't find the molds in your possession… no private information at any time…" It's what you taught Baptiste._

_Take the advice or not, dude. It's cool with me. _

Chance didn't look at the professor's eyes. He was feeling bad enough already.

"We've got to get that bastard."

None of the team disagreed.

In the distance sirens were wailing.

… … …

Chance, of course, had to slip away before the police arrived. No questioning for him, thanks.

Ilsa had made arrangements for rooms in her favorite London hotel and he could have gotten a cab or taken the train, but he felt like walking. Yes, the whole twenty miles from Heathrow to London. He didn't care it would take him all night.

Not looking at the eyes or not, a man had just died on his watch. A nice, polite, educated elderly man whose passion for knowledge and teaching had shone through his whole persona. Heavens, he had managed to get Ames interested in taxes, of all things…

Granted, technically Professor Alexiou hadn't been his client. But still, he had been with him, in his company… it wasn't right, NOT RIGHT AT ALL that somebody could get killed right under his nose just like that.

Chance kicked an empty garbage can on the sidewalk, sent it rolling down the street.

GODDAMN IT!

First the banker dying off despite all their efforts, now the professor…

Chance started running. No warming phase from cold to hot, no limbering up – he just dashed off, raced forward, ran, ran, ran….

The pavement was uneven, he threatened to stumble a couple of times.

Somewhere in the back of his mind the memory of Philippa was taking shape. Philippa, whom he hadn't been able to save either.

He always made a point of wearing shoes that allowed short sprints, but even the most functional ones were just not up to dealing with a longer run on a concrete sidewalk for long. First his ankles started hurting, then his knees.

Ruining his joints was not a good idea in his line of work. He needed to be careful… or even more people would die. Wishing he'd feel more exhausted, more, yes, _punished_, Chance stopped. He still felt nauseous, but at least the cool air of the falling night helped to clear his head. He needed to get to the hotel, do some research on the internet – damn, he missed Guerrero – and confer with the others. Together they'd…

Chance froze.

It was almost dark now and the narrow alley he had ended up in wasn't exactly Oxford Street. Chance was not surprised he wasn't alone. Like boars and other potentially damn dangerous animals that live in wild environments, muggers come out at dusk. Chance expected low but treacherous noises, barely perceptible movements on the periphery of his vision, the presence of someone waiting in the shadows with bated breath.

What he didn't expect was what sounded like an old fashioned locomotive. Someone was gasping, really GASPING for air, stumbling against garbage cans and lampposts with unpracticed legs weak from running.

"Hey, everything okay?", Chance asked the shadowy, slightly balloony figure.

Silence. Shocked, stunned, silence.

Finally, way too late to sound in any way unobtrusive: "Yeah, yeah -gasp- I'm fine -gasp- just some… asthma -gasp- attack. Don't -gasp- worry -gasp- it'll -gasp- pass!"

Chance almost broke into a chuckle. "So you're not out of breath because you followed me to mug me and aren't used to running?"

More shocked, stunned silence. Then: "Nooooo. Me? _Mugging someone?_ Naaaaah. Absolutely not. No sir. No. I'm just a pedestrian, taking a stroll, that's all."

He made a deep, wheezing intake of breath.

Okay, now, dead professor and all, that _was_ funny.

Chance walked towards his pursuer. The man saw him approach, turned around, started running while still struggling for air, tripped over some garbage on the ground, toppled over, stumbled against a streetlamp and would have crashed to the ground like a ton of bricks , had Chance not caught him just in time.

Damn, the guy was heavy. He wore a beard that was probably going to look like the professor's one day. At the moment, however, it was mostly downy with bristles on end and hiding lots of pimples.

"Before you hurt yourself…." Chance slowly lowered him to the ground.

Just then the wobbly guy snorted like a walrus, unexpectedly grabbed Chance's arm, dove forward and apparently tried to tackle him off his feet. A little like Emma Barnes back in Washington, prior to Operation Olive Branch, just minus the agility, the speed and the black bra with the little lacey thing.

Jeez, it seemed like a lifetime ago. According to Guerrero, Emma had given birth to a healthy baby girl called Angel. Chance briefly, very briefly wondered how she was dealing with her new role as a mother.

And he made wobbly guy crash to the ground like a ton of bricks after all.

"Okay buddy, care to explain what the hell you're up to?"


	61. Chapter 61

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Wobbly guy couldn't explain anything. He was gasping for air too badly and also clutching at his right ankle. Chance couldn't make out any kind of weapon on the man, no gun, no knife, except for his big belt no object fit to strangulate him. And he definitely needed the belt to keep his pants in place…

"Well, unless you were planning to kill me by sitting on my chest it's safe to say you're not a hired gun", Chance said, helping him to his feet again. "And for your sake I hope you're not a PI with the job to follow people around unobtrusively. In that case I would seriously consider a change of occupation."

Still completely exhausted from the whole sprinting and struggling thing, the man fell into a fit of coughing. 

Chance rubbed his forehead and sighed. "I'll call a cab and we talk. Agreed?"

More coughing and somewhere in between a nod.

Chance had to help wobbly guy to sit down on the stairs to the backdoor of a pawnshop. By the time the cab arrived, his breathing rate was still above normal, but at least he didn't sound like he was in need of iron lung treatment in the near future any more. Chance decided not to question him during the ride. The man's brain was probably still struggling with undersupply of oxygen. Instead he explained what he, the team and the Marshall Pucci Foundation were all about. Wobbly guy at least managed to say his name: Pete.

Pete didn't struggle when Chance led him to the hotel suite Ilsa had rented. Chance briefly explained to the others what had happened, then poured their guest/captive a stiff drink. "Now, buddy, one more time. What were you doing in that alley?"

"Professor Alexiou was my mentor and friend. We built up the IOFGTE together. He had contacted me from the airport in Athens, had told me he had found people willing to give him a ride. I was worried; IOFGTE and the professor have received lots of threats lately, especially with the upcoming speech Nikos wanted to deliver tonight. See, he was always willing to trust people and only thought the best of them until they actively lashed out at him…"

For a moment Pete got lost in the realization that he had just lost a true friend. Chance poured him another drink.

"You were with Nikos when he died", he then continued, voice struck with grief. "It seemed suspicious to me that you left before the police arrived, that you chose to walk away instead of using public transport or a car. I thought figuring out what you were up to was the only thing left I could do for my friend…"

Ames put a hand on his shoulder and the man started to cry openly. Chance wished he had tackled him a little less brutally back in the alley.

"What is IOFGTE?", Ilsa asked.

Pete was still sobbing. Sighing, Winston typed the acronym into his smartphone.

"_International Organization for Global Tax Equality?"_, he asked a few seconds later.

Pete nodded and blew his nose.

"We are an international organization that supports the introduction of a more just, more appropriate, more transparent tax system – worldwide."

"Nice idea, but maybe you should come up with a snappier title…" Winston remarked.

The man ignored Winston's comment and blew his nose once more. "See, the whole financial crisis thing that's shaking up Europe – whole states threatening to go bankrupt… Greece, Cyprus, Ireland, Portugal, Spain, Italy… civil war like street battles in which completely normal citizens attack representatives and institutions of the system… at the root of all that is a hair raising inequality when it comes to the question who carries the structures of society… schools, infrastructure, medical care… those who have least carry the most."

It was almost like listening to Professor Alexiou again. His mentor had definitely influenced him deeply. Ames wished she had met Alexiou earlier. Maybe she would be able to talk like that, too, then. When she closed her eyes for a moment, the image of the assassinated professor dead on the ground returned.

Goddamn it… She knew there was nothing they could have done. But it still felt like they had failed him.

"This surely wasn't the first time the professor was going to deliver a speech. Why the increased threat level now?", Chance asked. "What's so special about that speech?"

"IOFGTE was past just demanding a better tax system. Nikos had made a real job of it and developed a globally applicable method, not only to devise appropriate tax rates for everyone, but also _collect _the money properly."

"Now that sounds like a motive if I ever heard of one", Ilsa mumbled.

Raised eyebrows all around.

"_I _am paying my taxes properly! I'm just speaking from experience with others…"

Chance patted her back in an exaggerated patronizing gesture, nodding and smiling at her. "Of course you do."

"The latest threats were especially fierce. So fierce that we hired someone to trace them back. Nothing tangible came out of it. All we found out was that they came from the world's biggest tax oasis", Pete continued.

"Well then we should start looking for the threat there, shouldn't we?" Suddenly Ames' perked up visibly. "Good thing I brought my bikini."

Pete gave Ames a puzzled look. "A bikini for _Delaware_?"

And so Ames learned that the world's biggest tax oasis was not the Cayman Islands and not Switzerland, no, it was Delaware. An average of 130000 - yes, one hundred and thirty thousand -companies were launched there each year. Most of them only consisted of a company name, a bank account and a street address. The official legal form of this construct was "limited liability company". They could be set up anonymously and did not have to show any business activity. It was completely legal that CEO, board of directors and shareholder were one and the same person. The ideal instrument for foreigners to hide unreported or even illegal income from their home countries…

Very interesting since the US had no qualms putting other tax oases under pressure, Switzerland for example, to give away the names of American tax evaders.

Ames also learned something about a very special address in Wilmington.

_1209 North Orange Street._


	62. Chapter 62

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"How can one single-story building be the legal address for 285,000 separate businesses?"

Ames seriously wondered if something was wrong with her hearing.

"Basically because they don't actually conduct business from there. They just keep a drop box in that building. That's all Delaware law requires for them to benefit from the state's tax legislation", Pete said.

They, minus Chance and Winston, were on board of the jet now, heading straight to Delaware. Ever since the debacle with Philippa the jet had internet access so they were able to keep constant contact with Guerrero. He, back in San Francisco, had hacked himself into the IOFGTE's main server and was currently taking a closer look at the threats the group had received lately.

Almost in passing he sent a picture of 1209 North Orange Street to the jet's big monitor, so they could all see what Pete was talking about: A yellowish office building, flat roof, view of a parking garage. Neither exceptionally ugly nor a masterpiece of urban functional architecture. Just your random business location, like a million others scattered over cities worldwide.

The list of companies who claimed to have their Delaware base there, however, was impressive. Almost not a single multinational player that was not present: The cult-status computer company with the fruit in the logo, the famous manufacturer of caffeinated refreshment beverages, a certain internet search machine… Right alongside rather shady businessmen from Eastern Europe and Asia.

You know, if you only have to give a name to found a business and by law nobody is required to question terribly deeply where the money that you're funding your business with is actually coming from… it opens the doors for things like money laundering pretty wide.

Delaware authorities were working on the problem.

Meanwhile they're collecting about 900 million of tax dollars a year from their absentee corporate residents; a third of the state's budget. Money that, of course, is not paid in the states/countries where the businesses _actually, _well, _do business_. Money that could help paying stuff as fire brigades, hospitals, schools etc. there… Professor Alexiou's tax system would have done away with such loopholes.

Based on Guerrero's first findings, Chance and the others had come to the conclusion that the person who ordered the hit on Nikos Alexiou probably wasn't coming from the shady corner of money laundering foreign businessmen that one should think…

Right now Chance and Winston, still in Great Britain, were in the process of verifying that assumption.

"Somehow I don't think he's buying our "We just want to talk"-approach", Winston told Chance in the brief pause between two volleys of machine gun fire.

"Or maybe he just doesn't like talking", Chance muttered, squinting at the ceiling of the dilapidated factory building where they had encountered the man they believed had killed Professor Alexiou. "I can relate to that."

"So what are we going to do now?" A ricochet bullet barely missed Winston's shoulder.

"You provide covering fire, I convince him that talking isn't that bad after all", Chance said as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

"What? Are you INSANE? You don't really think you can…"

"Trust me", Chance winked at him and off he hopped, over their makeshift barricade, right into the assassin's line of fire. Winston had no choice but to fire as fast and as widespread as possible to keep their adversary occupied.

Chance, like a hare, zigzagged from one pillar of the machine hall to the other, ducking and diving, while Winston silently prayed that none of his bullets accidentally hit his friend.

Chance's maneuver sort of made sense insofar as the space between them and the assassin offered plenty of opportunities to hide behind – it was possible to cross the distance to their enemy by jumping from one pillar/machine fragment/pile of garbage to the next, but only if Chance completed concentrated on his avoidance maneuvers. Winston had to do all the shooting.

It was risky. With stray shots there was no telling where they went. And aside from that, what would happen once Chance had crossed the distance and reached the assassin?

Chance was counting on the fact that the other man was preoccupied with replying to Winston's onslaught and wouldn't notice how fast Chance approached. To ensure this envisaged moment of surprise, however, he would have to run the last few feet straight towards the threat, from a 70° angle… if Winston, at the same time, shot at him from a 20/30° angle, he'd have about seven seconds to…

The assassin saw him coming.

Only at the last second, but it was long enough for him to turn around, aim at Chance…

A scream pierced through the hall, even louder than the gunfire.

Winston immediately stopped shooting.

Listened to the silence that was more deafening than the whole storm of steel the minutes before.

"Winston?"

Winston released a deep breath of relief, scrambled to his feet and hurried over to the position of Chance and the assassin.

"So…", Chance said, clenching his teeth, "…why don't you tell us a thing or two about how you got a certain job not too long ago at the airport?"

The man that had put up such a fierce resistance was lying on the floor, tied up with cable fixers, blood stains all over his white shirt.

"Chance…", Winston said, "…you're bleeding…."

"Yeah, your bullet hit me right on time… impact in the shoulder felled me before our buddy here could shoot me in the chest." Chance sat down on a rusted machine part. "And now to you…", he addressed his captive.

"I'll do the questioning, you patch yourself up", Winston decided.

… … …

Ilsa's mobile signaled, announcing the telephone call she and Ames had been waiting for.

"Humphrey Treeman, officer at the Division of External Revenue and Foreign Relations… Play it exactly as we told you. Take no risks. He isn't likely to be armed, especially not if you visit him at his office, during the official opening hours… but be prepared. And don't mess up the technical side! Without the technical…"

"We got it, okay?", Ames, who had been listening in to the conversation, chimed in.

Ilsa gave her a very grateful look.

Ames nodded at her and smiled. They'd pull this off.


	63. Chapter 63

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Ilsa had made an official appointment with Mr. Humphrey Treeman, officer at the Division External Revenue and Foreign Relations. She arrived absolutely on time, breezing into his office like a breath of spring. Of course she was wearing those high heels that demonstrated she meant business but just as much accentuated her slender legs. In addition to that her skirt indicated firm buttocks and a flat belly. She wasn't stupid, Mr. Treeman was a man, he _would_ look and – this she had learned long before she had met Guerrero – no advantage, be it in existence for whatever Neanderthal instincts there could be, was to be sniffed at. She needed to lure this man into the trap she and Ames had set up, no matter what.

"First of all I'd like to express my heartfelt gratitude for making room on your surely tightly packed schedule for me on such a short notice", Ilsa began, sitting down on Treeman's visitor chair. Her heart was beating madly. In theory they had pulled this stunt a couple of times before, for example in connection with Harry's t-rex mess, but this was the first time ever she and Ames were completely on their own. No back up from Chance acting as the janitor right outside the office door, no Guerrero lurking in from the windowsill, no Winston in the van, right in front of the building. As Winston had said, it was unlikely that Treeman turned out to be dangerous, but you could never really know for sure. Chance had only agreed to the whole thing after a long and heated debate with Ames, culminating in Ames asking him if he didn't trust her.

_Trust._ Always a keyword with Chance.

Now, sitting eye-to-eye with the person who had cold-bloodedly ordered the hit on an elderly scholar whose only crime had been that he had tried to make the world a little better, Ilsa wondered if they should really have been that insistent.

But now it was too late. The only way out of this situation was the way right through it.

"The Marshall Pucci Foundation is one of those wonderful organizations without which the world would stop turning. Making room for you was simply a must", Mr. Treeman replied, all smiles and sickening sweetness in his voice. "Your husband was such a far-seeing, charismatic individual… I had the pleasure of meeting him once during a charity event. Unfortunately he wasn't exactly interested in moving the Foundation's headquarters from London to Wilmington. I gather you're not aiming to follow your husband's footsteps in that particular matter?"

"The State of Delaware offers some very attractive options for a legitimate organization to cut down on unnecessary administrative costs… so more money can go into the charity projects that the Marshall Pucci Foundation has made its top priority", Ilsa stated, wearing an equally false smile and just as much caries causing sweetness in her voice. She graciously crossed her legs so that her skirt rode up her thigh just enough that he could see she was wearing velvet hold up stockings.

"Be assured, Mrs. Pucci, the State of Delaware would be more than willing to assist you in expanding the invaluable work that the Foundation performs for human kind." Mr. Treeman was almost drooling as he spoke. Be it from looking at Ilsa's legs or the prospect of hauling in a major tax payer for Delaware was hard to tell. Probably both.

"I understand you're interested in leading this department in the near future?", Ilsa asked innocently.

"There have been talks about me possibly succeeding our current department head, Mrs. Francis, but nothing is definitive yet and I have to say, even though of course I am human and the position _is_ attractive, I'm a proud servant of the State of Delaware in any position."

"Of course", Ilsa agreed with him. "But the Marshall Pucci Foundation and me, specifically, would be willing to support you, should you ever have the feeling that you expertise could be put to better use in a more advanced field…"

Treeman swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.

"If there is anything in particular that I can do for you, Mrs. Pucci…"

"I'm not really sure I've come to the right place." Ilsa paused long enough to start him worrying she might have actually changed her mind. "See, I've been told over and over again what a great place for businesses is… but my sources tell me that this is about to change. There's a group named IOFGTE… it has come to my attention that they're aiming to publish how to introduce a new worldwide taxation system. Many politicians have indicated that they're willing to listen to them. This would affect Delaware's policy regarding taxes, too, wouldn't it?"

Mr. Treeman was so quick in trying to ease Ilsa's worries, he almost stumbled over his own words: "Not to worry, Mrs. Pucci. According to my sources the figurehead of that really minor organization, a Professor Nikos Alexiou unfortunately passed away only a few days ago. Without him as their renowned ambassador, the organization will hardly get any attention at all."

"From what I have been told his successor, a Pete Harmill, is very determined to carry on the professor's work…" Inwardly Ilsa held her breath. This was THE decisive moment. Would Treeman fall for it?

"Mrs. Pucci, why don't you let me gather a bit more information about that Mr. Harmill? At the moment I feel rather ill-informed to give you competent advice in that matter. But why don't we meet again tomorrow morning, same time? Who knows, maybe the issue will have already sorted itself out then." Again that sickening smile.

Ames, via earpiece, let out a triumphant YES!

"Not so fast", Ilsa mumbled as she exited Treeman's office. "That's only half the battle…"

"_Sorted itself out _– how else do you want to interpret it, if not that he's putting out another hit?" Ames did a little victory dance in the small room they rented in the motel opposite from the Revenue Division's building. The equipment had worked perfectly. She had been able to listen to everything and, of course, also tape everything.

Her celebration turned out not to have been premature.

Half an hour later the assassin who was still in Chance's and Winston's custody, received a telephone call from Delaware.

Of course they taped that one, too.

… … …

"Brax told Walter to kill the boy. I swear it's the truth! I SWEAR! He specifically wanted the boy dead! I don't know why – Brax didn't explain. I wasn't part of the original plan. He seems to have decided that spontaneously. That's all I know. REALLY. Ohgodohgodohgod, please don't kill me! Don't! I've told you everything I know. Brax wanted that kid dead. Now, please, just let me go, I won't tell anyone…"

Guerrero cut the third bank robber's plea short with a quick shot to the back of his head.

As he disposed of the body with the help of quite a bit of acid and an adult-sized plastic tub, he had lots to think about.

The way he understood all this so far was that originally Brax had simply wanted to rob that bank to demonstrate to the mayor and his minions that he could without getting caught. Then, for reasons yet unknown, he had suddenly decided not only to underline his argumentation with the killing of one of the hostages, but by SPECIFICALLY killing Ash.

Why Brax sudden interest in Ash?

Guerrero somehow had the feeling he wouldn't like the answer.


	64. two

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ two ~**_

Killing B. Brax was not as easy as it sounded, even for assassins as experienced and well-trained as the Old Man and Baptiste. They couldn't just off him. Brax' position as the leader of an intricately fabricated criminal organization with dozens of smaller units, hundreds of subordinates and a hard to estimate number of power hungry wannabe leaders secretly picturing themselves in his place, was comparable to that of the dictator of a small country.

The problem of dictatorship is not just that all power is in the hands of one individual that may use it at will, for good or for – as in most cases – worse. The real problem of dictatorship is that it corrupts the country in question. All power corrupts, but lack of power corrupts absolutely. Once the dictator is gone the country's oppressed groups and their respective leaders start struggling to gain as much of the pie that had previously been denied to them as possible.

Trust them to pick up the philosophy that the ends justify the means as quickly as the doctrine that revenge is a God or whatever-given right.

There's no real way to prevent this from happening. There are methods to cushion this effect, though. As good as it feels to parade the erm… _deceased_ … dictator's head around on a pike and display the rest of his body in a public place, a violent end to a ruler is usually a sure way to guarantee bloody Wars of the Diadochi. It is as if the end of the old times inevitably set the atmosphere of the new beginning. A violent end almost certainly taints the new start.

In principle the same goes for criminal organizations. Once the Big Boss is out of the way, the wannabe leaders scramble for the top position. _How_ they do it, however is connected with the Big Boss' fashion of departure. An assassination is almost instantly bound to create paranoia – everyone feels threatened by everyone else and is convinced that somebody is willing to cross all boundaries. So, in preventive action, they all cross all boundaries.

Can you say "bloodbath"? "Collateral damage"? "Innocent citizens dying in the crossfire"?

A natural death, on the other hand can't completely prevent violent struggles for succession, but it increases the chances for a more… civilized … change of leadership.

Hey, the guillotine was introduced as a civilized way of executing people, so the term _is _somewhat fitting.

Yeah, somewhat.

Anyway, Baptiste and the Old Man decided to be subtle about the whole killing B. Brax thing. Thus the "bacterial infection" and his subsequent admission to hospital.

A simple air bubble injected in the tube that connected Brax' drip infusion with his body and the whole problem would have been solved in a neat, unobtrusive way.

But noooooo… a problem had to arise.

Joubert was the first one to notice. Pretending to be one of Brax' doctors, he unexpectedly dropped into his hospital room – just in time to find another "doctor" press a pillow to unconscious Brax' face.

Oh great.

Any half-way decent medical examiner recognizes signs of asphyxiation from a mile off.

The assassin, a woman, wasted no time, the second Joubert came through the door she pulled her gun.

Good thing his reflexes were still as sharp as ever. And his gun was much larger. From this distance a shot would tear a giant hole into her. She'd have serious problems even if he only grazed her.

From the look on her face he could tell she knew.

Outside the door Brax' bodyguards were keeping watch, oblivious to what was going on inside… for now.

Once they noticed, the carefully devised plan to remove Brax as unobtrusively as possible would be toast. The bodyguards would storm in, a shootout would ensue, some of the bullets would go through the thin walls, innocent bystander would get hurt…

Junior wouldn't like that and Joubert definitely couldn't risk his wrath. Ash's state of mind was almost perfect – he was hurt, he was angry, he wanted to lash out at his mother's murderer and everyone else he could hold responsible for her death… He needed to maintain contact with him right now, at all costs. All the boy needed was a little more guidance and he would make the right choice… just like his father, so many years ago.

Odd, even the age was similar. Junior had been sixteen when Joubert had first laid eyes on him. Damn, they had been quite a team. Well, the good times were about to begin again. He only needed to figure out how to solve the current problem. With a sigh Joubert forced himself to concentrate on the present situation again.

"Your gun", he hissed.

She hesitated. But again, his weapon could make quite big holes… She put the gun on Brax' bed sheet.

Thank God Brax was still unconscious. Clever girl had manipulated his heart monitor. So far still nobody had noticed what was going on in the special patient's room….

"You're not going to make a single sound", Joubert instructed her. "We're going to walk out of here. Together. Two colleagues. Talking shop. Exchanging their opinions on a very well paying patient with interesting symptoms."

"You don't seriously think I'll let you lead me off like a lamb to the slaughter…", she hissed.

"I'll let go of you the second we're out the door. You turn right, I turn left. We leave with moderately fast, doctor-like steps in different directions. I don't want to see your face ever again."

"I don't believe a word of it." Clever girl, of course Joubert was planning to alert Baptiste so that he could catch her once she was out of the bodyguard's sight.

"You've got a better idea?"

"Actually… yes… since you don't want any noise you can hardly shoot me, can you?" Head held high, she took her gun back, walked over to the hospital room's glass door, pulled it open, climbed onto the small balcony that Brax' private room was equipped with, easily clambered over to the next small balcony…

She was right… as long as she didn't fire a shot at Joubert, he had what he wanted: Nobody realizing what was going on.

Very clever girl indeed.

And gone she was.


	65. Chapter 65

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement**

Unfortunately their mysterious assassin didn't take her first encounter with Joubert as a bad omen.

Unusual, actually.

Most assassins - and criminals in general, for that matter - were highly superstitious. Joubert had always made a point of not letting his boys fall into this behavior and severely punished all signs of belief in the supernatural. Allowing that kind of stuff would have meant opening the floodgates for outside manipulation. Religion would have been okay, but that question never arose, neither with Chance nor with Baptiste, despite his name.

The assassin returned the very next day, apparently hell-bent to dispatch Brax as spectacularly as possible. Luckily Baptiste discovered the gas in the ventilation shaft to Brax' room before it could knock half the hospital out for a week. At least their adversary seemed to have some kind of scruples regarding collateral damage. The gas was so carefully composed, its concentration would have only killed all living creatures directly exposed to a concentration of more than eighty percent, e.g. only those people who happened to be in Brax' room at the time the substance was set free. Too bad for any nurses, doctors or cleaning personnel that happened to stop by, but the rest of the hospital's staff and patients would only have suffered from side effects such as nausea, massive headaches and numbness in the extremities.

Yeah, granted, "only" is quite the euphemism, considering that these symptoms would for the most part affect people already in some sort of a critical condition, but well, apparently she was not willing to become a mass murderer over this job.

Or maybe she was just working cost-effectively. Killing hundreds of innocent people would inevitably make her the target of fierce persecution by all branches of law enforcement... while the investigation of the single death of a notorious criminal would probably be dropped within a couple of weeks.

For the next five days, while Brax slowly recovered from the bacterial infection that Baptiste and Joubert so complicatedly had arranged for him by contaminating his drinking water, the two men were busy as beavers… with saving Brax from the still unidentified threat. Poison, blackmailed doctors, hidden needles... nothing seemed to be beneath that woman. Damn, she was resourceful! Not to mention that Baptiste and Joubert were faced with the extra trouble of having to do all that saving quietly, behind Brax' and his bodyguards' backs, so they wouldn't alert his organization and set the War of the Diadochi in motion.

"I'm getting too old for this!" Joubert snarled furiously on the third day as they struggled to clamber out of the hospital's central waste collection point. "This really makes retirement look appealing after all!" He wiped traces of vanilla pudding off his forehead and picked a piece of lettuce from his jacket.

"Retirement is not a bad thing", Baptiste replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he caught sight of why his hands felt so sticky. "You should find yourself a nice place in the sun and a lady friend. Maybe you should come visiting Greta and me... they've got plenty of property for sale there... we could be neighbors."

A vague shadow, unnoticed by Baptiste, flickered across the Old Man's face at the mentioning of Greta.

"So _this_ is not enough to call you back into the Game?", he asked Baptiste, forced ironic smirk on his face that finally didn't escape his old employee's notice.

"Rolling around in rotten food and risking suffocation in ventilation shafts? Yeah, that's tempting..." Baptiste let the sentence trail off, kept his eyes trained on the Old Man. If he said something now... if he gave him another reason why he should get back into business... as Joubert's partner...

But then another load of garbage came down, they had to get out of the way and the moment was gone.

... ... ...

On the last day of Brax' stay at the hospital the assassin outdid herself. B. Brax didn't have many weaknesses, but one of his soft spots was definitely his love for cars. He had a garage full of classic cars, but his most cherished possession was a silver blue 1965er Corvette Stingray with black factory leather interior, a completely rebuilt 327/300 hp engine, AM/FM radio and four speed manual transmission. Brax' driver thanked God every day for granting him the opportunity to handle this treasure on wheels that he would have never been able to afford even in his wildest dreams.

Would he still have thanked God, had he known about the intricately designed little bomb underneath the car, set to explode once he drove faster than 40 mph?

Baptiste and Joubert had to ad hoc organize car mechanic uniforms and a car repair shop where they could work in peace. Not to mention the fact that they somehow had to talk the driver into letting them give the car a quick check up before he went to pick up his boss.

They paid a hooker, one of the expensive ones, to tell the driver some story about a special promotional offer, today only, for vintage cars... to solve the problem of the location they assailed an elderly car repair shop owner.

They really tried to be gentle with him, drugged him with a carefully considered dosage of ketamine through injection before he even had a chance to realize what was going on. He was sleeping on a makeshift bed in a backroom of the shop now.

"I seriously don't know how Junior could choose to make a living out of this." Baptiste wiped sweat from his forehead. "This is frustrating as hell - one problem not even solved, the next already shows up. And all the boundaries because of possible collateral damage... What a nightmare. He should have let me kill him…"

Joubert chuckled. "He always was like that, even back when he was in the business. Remember how he risked everything to save those sharks instead of simply shooting them and cutting them up?"

They both laughed at Junior's foolishness.

"I could have never killed him", Baptiste suddenly said.

They both stopped laughing. For a moment, silence reigned.

"I know", Joubert finally replied. "Shouldn't have asked that of you."

"And now look where he brought us." Baptiste laughed again.

Joubert thought of Ash and how ready the boy was to cross the boundaries his father fought so hard to respect. Only a little more patience...

"Yeah, look where he brought us...", the Old Man mumbled.


	66. Chapter 66

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

They had come to a decision.

It was a grave decision.

Junior sure as hell wouldn't like it.

There was no way they could tell him.

But what other options did they have?

They discussed the issue back and forth, a whole evening went into this, along with several glasses of high quality Bourbon. And while they talked they always had one eye on the surveillance devices, of course. Just in case the assassin would strike again.

She was constantly interfering in their plan to do away with Brax quietly and unobtrusively. They both knew sooner or later, given her apparent competence most likely sooner, she'd manage to sneak past them and get the job done.

Playing defense was so much more complicated than the offensive approach. Instead of being able to concentrate on one path to the intended victim, one had to consider all sorts of possible scenarios.

Seriously, how the hell did Junior do that? Without going crazy?

Junior… crazy… Yeah, well, granted…

Judging by everything they knew about the female assassin's approach to the killing of Brax so far, she'd raise everyone's attention in the criminal world from here to Greenland with whatever method she'd be successful with in the end.

They just couldn't have that.

So she had to die.

Yes, there was also the option of trying to figure out who had hired her, flushing that person out and thus ending her assignment. Once the client was neutralized and thus unable to pay no contract killer worth his or her salt continued carrying out the job. They were not in it for the thrill of the kill. They were in the business for the money and when the money didn't come…

But this approach was complicated. Brax had tons of enemies, any one of them could have hired her. Them digging around could also alert Brax. He had a very effective system of snitches that would surely inform him if somebody started asking questions. And at least Joubert's face was well-known enough to result in some very highly raised eyebrows.

In addition to that this whole issue was time sensitive, the longer they waited, the lower were their chances to pull this off in the desired way.

They needed to get rid of Brax.

Now.

So the assassin had to go.

Of course that was easier said than done. If she hadn't been so elusive she surely wouldn't have managed to cause them so much trouble. But everyone makes mistakes and good bait catches fine fish.

Staging a trip of Brax to a mansion for sale at the outskirts of the city had been complicated. It involved getting an exact copy of one of his precious classic cars and pretending that he was getting into said car… right in front of Brax' headquarter. If one of his bodyguards or Brax himself had noticed… They had to manipulate the video surveillance system AND create a distraction for the guards.

Heavens. If they had done all that for a client, he would have received a hefty bill in the end. All those expenses… not to mention the hours that went into planning and preparing… Ah, well, Ilsa Pucci was paying at least part of the costs… Guerrero had arranged something. They were pretty sure, though, he hadn't given her any details regarding the payments.

And anyway, Ash was worth it.

The assassin fell for the trick. The mansion had a garage attached directly to the house. They instructed the thugs they had hired to act as Brax and his chauffeur to drive the car into the garage. With the door closing behind the vehicle she could only assume her target would walk from the garage into the house.

So she followed suit.

Can you say "mousetrap"?

At Baptiste's signal the two thugs quickly hurried out of the garage again. The second Joubert saw them race down the driveway he activated the automatic lockdown system the mansion's state of the art alert system provided. They had spent several hours pimping it up a little more and now it, once activated, automatically sealed all windows and doors and lowered the metal shutters that were meant to protect the building at night. The doors were made of steel, only plated with wood to make them look as if they were made of dark oak. The windows were made of bulletproof glass.

It was really a gift from heaven that the deceased owner of the mansion had been so paranoid. And that he had died of a stroke only a few weeks ago. His heirs were not interested in living in such a grand house. They preferred a loft in one of the gentrified areas of the city. So much cooler and way better for throwing impromptu parties. They had put it on the market almost right away, even before the burial.

Really a good thing – now Joubert and Baptiste could use his house to carry out their plan.

Once the assassin realized she was trapped she did the most reasonable thing.

She hid.

"How long do you think you'll be able to keep this up?", Joubert called loudly, knowing that in the empty house his voice would carry far upstairs. They were standing right in the middle of the mansion, in the great hall, meant for large dinner parties and other functions. They had lost her trace here.

Baptiste, meanwhile, had his back and kept his eyes on the empty rooms surrounding them. Chances were she'd pop out of a corner somewhere and try to take one of them hostage, in order to pressurize the other one into opening the door and letting her out.

Predictably, she didn't reply.

Minutes passed by.

The silence of the house became louder than any gunshot could have ever been.

Where the hell…? With most of the furniture missing there weren't many places she could conceal herself. So where was she?

"The only way out of here is through us. You can't hide forever." Just like Joubert, Baptiste was highly alert.

"I'll promise we'll make it short and painless… if you come out now", Joubert continued.

A threat Junior surely would have disapproved of.

Suddenly it dawned on Baptiste. Of course! There WAS one way out. A flaw in the house's security system they had both overlooked… a rather common flaw… she couldn't know it was built into this house's security system, too, but hoping that it was there was her only chance. Signaling to the Old Man what he had discovered they both stepped towards the big fireplace that dominated the hall.

Just like Santa, only the other way around, she was most likely trying to climb out of the house, hoping that nobody had secured the chimney with a grid.

There… thin, barely visible soot was coming down, covering their hands in black dust as they held their hands underneath the flue.

The Old Man locked eyes with Baptiste.

Baptiste nodded.

Together they fired into the chimney.

A muffled cry, a loud rumbling and scratching sound… she was barely alive anymore when her body hit the ground of the fireplace.

They could have shot her again, made it final. But her wounds were deadly anyway. Baptiste kneeled down and pulled her into his arms. Joubert crouched down by her side. They'd permanently dispose of her body, completely destroy it... no need to worry about leaving traces on her.

"If you think you saved Brax, you're wrong", she whispered. "I had a backup plan. The wheels are already set in motion."

Her whole body jerked in a violent, painful upwards arc. A second later she was dead.


	67. Chapter 67

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_The wheels are already set in motion._

What did that mean? What the hell did that mean?

The mansion was located at the outskirts of the city, yes, but in the middle of a park, with huge walls all around. It was impossible to get even as much as a glimpse of it from one of the roads passing by the premises. Granted, a couple of the neighbors had helicopters, but it was a grayish day, not exactly ideal flying weather and Joubert and Baptiste had made sure the house looked deserted.

The realtor in charge of selling the mansion was busy on the other side of the continent, where a tiny problem with airport security in Miami, Florida, was requiring all of his attention. The heirs were off to various locations in other states, too – parties, fashion weeks, business appointments…

Getting it all covered had amounted to a ton of work, the logistics had been a nightmare, but again, Ash was worth it. Joubert was still not quite sure when he would let the boy know that his father himself had agreed with the execution of everyone involved in Philippa's death, but he couldn't wait to see the result: Disappointment, yes, anger, definitely, but most of all a permanent damage to the belief in his father's values. Ash would never ever give credence to Junior's dogma of "Nobody deserves to die" again once the fate of his mother's murderers was revealed to him.

Junior had so played into his hands with this move, it was fantastic. Not in his wildest dreams would Joubert have imagined such an enormous opportunity.

He would not miss out on it.

Guerrero had helped them organizing the details of the trap for the assassin. So had Ilsa Pucci, especially with luring that realtor down to Florida to make sure he wouldn't accept any spontaneous appointments with potential buyers to view the mansion in the sensitive time window while they were conducting business at the place. Joubert and Baptiste still weren't sure how much she knew about Guerrero's list and their own part in dealing with it. Somehow they had the feeling she wasn't fully aware of the dimensions of Guerrero's activities.

Ah well, should she ever find out it was definitely Guerrero's problem, not theirs.

All their precautions left them plenty of time to dispose of the body without ruffle or excitement. Or at least they had thought so. The assassin's warning brought a pressure to the situation they had not foreseen.

_The wheels are already set in motion._

"Could be a slow poison…" Joubert mused as they hoisted the dead woman's corpse into the huge tub of the mansion's master bathroom. "Fluphenazine decanoate for example? Maybe she was aiming for Neuroleptic malignant syndrome…"

"Sometimes you're so old-fashioned", Baptiste chuckled. "Your first thought is "poison" because you think of it as the female murder weapon of choice, don't you? How often have we poisoned someone? You, Junior, me… we're all guys but our first approach when it had to be done quietly was always poison… even that last go around with Katherine… Junior was planning to poison her."

For a moment none of them said a word, both thinking of that last go around, when everything had gone down the drain. Nothing had ever been the same after Junior had jumped ship. Thanks to Greta Baptiste had somewhat come to terms with his friend's decision by now, but had the Old Man?

Baptiste glanced at him as he perforated the assassin's body with a scalpel and then started performing CPR on it. Messy, but definitely the fastest way to get rid of the fluids; later on it would make cutting it into pieces so much easier.

It had been years since he had seen Joubert this determined and focused. Ever since he had taken on the task of getting rid of Brax he was pretty much back to his old self, back the way he had been before Junior had left.

Was it just the prospect of killing? Baptiste seriously doubted it. Just like all of his employees he had never known the Old Man enjoying the actual act. They were not serial killers, getting off on playing God. Killing was their job, they were in it for the money, the opportunities it offered… not for any kind of sick thrill. Junior had liked the adrenaline that came with a challenging target, yes, but that was it. There was no fun in death itself.

So what had brought this change in Joubert about? Where was this newly found vigor coming from that he hadn't shown in years? Baptiste wished he could say it was because they were working together again, but he was realist enough to accept that this couldn't be it, either.

They had plugged the tub so that they could mix plenty of bleach into the fluids that were by now sloshing around in it. With enough water added, getting that stuff down the drain shouldn't pose too much of a problem.

Baptiste couldn't shake the feeling that Ash somehow was at the root of all of this. Joubert treated the boy like he had treated them when he had first taken them in, just minus the "it's okay to kill somebody as long as the money's right"-lesson. For all Baptiste could tell, he really did see him as his grandson.

So did he simply want to protect him by killing Brax and thus diminishing the chances that Ash would engage on a retaliation campaign of his own… or did he have another, ulterior motive?

The Old Man, done with letting the body fluid-bleach-water mixture run down the drain, suddenly locked eyes with Baptiste and Baptiste just knew he knew what he was thinking.

They did know each other well.

"Don't remember Guerrero ever using poison", he said in continuation of their earlier debate, using the tub's shower head to wash away the last remnants of bleach and blood.

For a brief moment Baptiste wondered if he should push the matter, if he should ask him what all this was about, what plans he had for the future, for Ash….

But it would have destroyed, for lack of a better word, the peaceful mood between them. When had they last worked together like this? Baptiste had yearned too long for this kind of companionship with the Old Man… too many months in the prison in Siberia and while he had been on the run from the authorities. He was not going to risk it.

"Yeah, he's even more old-fashioned than you are", Baptiste grinned. "I bet she hid another bomb somewhere…"

Together they set out to deconstruct the body when suddenly Baptiste's cell phone signaled.

Baptiste glanced at the display and raised his eyebrows. "Speak of the devil…", he said and took the call. "Hey dude…"


	68. Chapter 68

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Hey mate."

Guerrero paused for a moment. This felt a bit like ten plus years back, when they had still been in the Old Man's employ. Funny, the thought suddenly gave him if not the creeps (those few things that did had either to do with his son, Chance or Ilsa) then at least an uneasy feeling.

Chance and his damn, infectious conscience.

"You got rid of the problem?", he finally asked.

_This _even more felt like ten plus years back.

And it turned the uneasy into a definitely queasy feeling. Chance would hate the solution they had found to the problem of the non-discreet killer. If he had known he probably would have tried saving her.

Yeah, that thought, too, reminded him of ten plus years back, with the difference that Katherine Walters had been a job, not a colleague getting in the way of a job. She had been, for all he knew, truly innocent.

And boy, had he tried finding dirt on her.

The days after the events in the cabin… the fight… he had walked away telling Baptiste that he would withdraw from the whole thing, that he was out of it, completely. He had implied that he wouldn't interfere, neither on Chance's side nor on the Old Man's side.

He had meant it. While talking to Baptiste, tucking his gun away, walking though the cabin's door he had truly meant it.

Because that was what he had always done, keep to himself, mind his own business, protect his privacy, retreat when things got too messy. A strategy that had kept him alive through years and years in a profession where short careers were a common phenomenon.

"Short careers" as in "early deaths".

"Don't trust anyone" was the key to making it through, right along with a loaded gun and a hidden combat knife. Ah yes, and "stay away from family squabbles".

Family squabbles involved emotions, irrational feelings, disappointed hopes… all sorts of stuff that could get yourself killed. In the early years Guerrero had secretly frowned at Joubert's daddy issues regarding Junior. His attachment to the boy had cost him quite a bit of money at times, and what had he gotten in return? A half-ass apology for some insanely stupid stunt, a tilt of the head and a lopsided smile.

Later Guerrero had discovered that Junior was more than just a pretty face and natural charm… He came to like working with him, despite the occasional jump from a high building or way-too-close explosion.

Junior was willing to risk everything for a job… and, as it turned out, for people he felt attached to – Joubert, Baptiste…

Guerrero.

He came back for him in goddamn shitty situations… and Guerrero subsequently did the same… come back instead of doing the rational, cost benefit thing and withdraw.

But only after the fight in the cabin he truly knew that he could really trust Junior.

He had had the shot.

And didn't take it.

Amidst the rubble of the broken table, breathing heavily and looking at Junior pointing a gun at him, Guerrero had silently cursed himself for not ending things before they turned against him.

For hesitating and in the end not going through with it when he had had the chance.

Feelings had gotten in the way, emotions…

_Don't make a whole lot out of it…_

His scoffing remark had been more aimed at himself than at Junior. _There you go, idiot, you broke your rules, made friends with someone, let emotions rule out rational thought, now he's blowing your brain out, it serves you right to end like that, don't make a whole lot out of it, I don't want to spend the last few minute on earth thinking about what a fool I've been. _

Walking out on Baptiste had been his last attempt at keeping up appearances, at holding on to his old rules and choices. Doing research on Katherine, trying to prove that she hadn't been what Junior had seen in her, an innocent victim not deserving to die, had already been aimed at getting Junior back on board.

Because he had started missing him pretty much a second after exiting the cabin's door.

When Junior had put down the gun, had not shot him, he had proven once and for all that he was his friend.

Scratch Katherine's dramatic interference – Guerrero had seen it in Junior's eyes before doe-eyed damsel in distress had shown up to put a hand on his arm. Junior couldn't have done it, just like Guerrero moments earlier.

When he hadn't found any dirt on Katherine, when it turned out Junior had been right about her and he wouldn't be able to drag him back into normality by revealing to him that she was nothing but another liar their had only been one option left: Give the other side a try.

Well, at least sort of.

He and Chance came to an understanding, agreed on certain ground rules…

And he had broken every single one of them in the weeks following Philippa's demise. Chance had given his consent, yes, but as he now looked at the blood and cerebral matter spatter his interrogation of hamster number three had left on the walls of his dungeon, it was pretty safe to say, Chance would have never agreed to _this. _

No use crying over spilt milk. Ash's life was on the line, both in the metaphorical and the factual sense.

The last hamster, however, hadn't been of much help – no new details regarding the shot aimed at Ash, especially not what had made Brax suddenly change his mind and target the boy specifically, after he, at first had shown no interest at all in him.

But the hamster had given away one important piece of information after all – the name of the raccoon that had killed Philippa.

_Walter. Walter Lewis._

"Dude?", Baptiste asked impatiently. Only then Guerrero realized he had gotten lost in thought.

"You might want to check the latest repairs to Brax' mansion, mate… they had a problem with the automatic fireplace…"

Baptiste understood immediately.

"She's using gas. Through the fireplace. Once he activates it…."

Today it was cold outside…


	69. Chapter 69

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

The gas explosion in Brax' mansion turned out to be of gigantic proportions. It blew a hole in the ground the size of a small volcanic crater. Seismographic stations in the neighboring states registered it. Window panes in a five mile radius shattered into pieces. It was really a good thing Brax had no direct neighbors. Boy, had the assassin done a thorough job of wiping the house off the face of the earth.

It would have served as a fitting monument for her impressive skills and callousness. She would have gone with a bang - in the very literal sense.

If she had managed to destroy more than the house, that is.

An anonymous caller had informed Brax and the authorities about the manipulated fireplace and they were able to evacuate the building and the vicinity just in time to prevent any loss of life. Experts from the fire brigade tried to stop the gas' accumulation in the mansion's pipes, but in the course of attempting to vacuum it off accidentally sparks were produced –

KABOOM.

Unfortunately B. Brax must have taken the loss of his home deeply to heart. He suffered a stroke right at the explosion site, although he was already in the care of two EMTs who had been called just in case. They gave him all the necessary injections, tried CPR... but couldn't do anything for him - he was beyond rescue, dead on arrival at the hospital. Well, strokes can happen anytime, even to people who seem completely healthy and only had their doctor's annual checkup last week.

G. Brax had two different top private medical examiners perform autopsies on his brother's corpse. They both came to the conclusion that the stroke had been spontaneous, unforeseeable and definitely due to natural causes, no sign whatsoever of outside interference except for the injections the EMTs had given their patient.

Of course they both didn't mention the fact that someone had abducted their elderly parents (doctor number one)/their wife (doctor number two); in consequence the kidnappers kept their word and returned the hostages once the reports stating natural causes had been handed over to Brax.

With their insistence on the unpredictability of strokes they tried to save their colleague's, Brax' personal doctor's, life.

Of course Brax killed him nevertheless, just as a matter of principle.

... ... ...

"So you're going back to your attempt at a civil life? She must be quite the capable companion...", Joubert mumbled as he gave Baptiste a lift to the airport.

Baptiste took his time to reply. In a way he relished the moment. The Old Man was asking him to stay. To continue working with him. More than half his life he had wanted this, desperately. He had yearned for the Old Man's respect and affection. And now he was getting it. After all those years.

Too late. Now there was Greta.

"She's worth it", he finally said. They had already reached the airport's parking lot.

Joubert nodded.

For a moment Baptiste could feel his determination to fly back to Greta slide. If the Old Man said something more now, added anything, reminded him of some event in their past...

But Joubert had never been one to beg. He waved a brief good-bye in silence, just the curt lifting of his right hand, then he drove off, leaving Baptiste behind to check in alone.

... ... ...

Ash knew his father disapproved of him meeting his grandfather anywhere outside the office or alone, without anyone else present.

Well, Ash decided, he was not a child anymore, he could meet his grandfather wherever and whenever he wanted. Granted, he'd probably not exactly tell his father about this meeting - when push came to shove then yes, he was willing to face him and put his foot down, but there was no need to stir trouble without necessity.

So he was meeting his grandfather now. At his grandfather's office, which he had never visited before. Without his father's or anyone else's permission (Ames SO had no say in his whereabouts!)…

Ash felt rebellious as he entered the unobtrusive building and walked up the narrow staircase. Just like the warehouse, this place, too, didn't look as if anyone was operating a business from there. It looked rundown, in need of repair and, most importantly, totally plain. Ash's practiced eye, however, noticed the well-hidden state of the art security system, the bulletproof windows, the concealed trapdoors which led to escape routes or weapons…

When his grandfather opened the door to his actual office space, Ash was not surprised to find finely furnished rooms, wooden panels on the walls, thick carpets, antique desks, chairs, tables, dimmed lights… all in all he was welcomed by the atmosphere of an old English university library.

Joubert nodded at the boy to take a seat at the smoker's table in his study and produced two crystal tumblers. Ash tried to hide it, but his eyes grew large as the Old Man first poured himself a drink and then, although a smaller amount, one for Ash.

"What, don't tell me you never tried alcohol before", Joubert said.

"Here and there", Ash shrugged, "but…"

"But you were never offered some by your dad", the Old Man finished the sentence. The look on the boy's face told him he was right on the money.

Of course. Trust Junior to keep his boy on a short leash.

"That's Scotch, 15 years old, the good stuff your father drinks. You're growing up fast, you got yourself a girl, a sip or two won't kill you", Joubert said, seemingly casually, but in fact watching the boy's every move. He could see he liked what he was told.

Proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the mentioning of Helen, Ash took the glass and downed a bit of the liquid – whoa, that stuff was a million light years different from what he had tried with his ice hockey buddies… it seemed to burn his insides, but on the other hand… Ash straightened himself a little in the expensive leather chair… he could deal with it.

"You've really grown a lot", Joubert slowly continued. "Almost a man… What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, you know…"

Ash knew exactly what his grandfather was referring to and turned his head away. He was so not in the mood to talk about his mom.

"She was a good woman", Joubert said.

_There we go_, Ash thought, stifling a sigh.

"The people who killed her just like that… shot her like a rabid dog… they'd deserve someone did the same to them, don't you think?"

Ash put his tumbler down and stared at his grandfather in utter shock. It was as if he had read his mind!

"Revenge is good, Ash. Nothing feels better than getting back at the people who dared messing with you. It heals you. Makes you whole again."

Ash looked at the old man in front of him with utter wonder. No one, especially no adult and certainly not his dad, had ever talked to him like that. For the first time ever since his mom had died it felt like somebody understood him.

He reached for the tumbler and downed the rest of the Scotch.


	70. Chapter 70

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

In the early evening Joubert sent Ash on his way home – alone. Was it dangerous? Yes, in a way it was, he was only fifteen after all and the warehouse was located in the Tenderloin.

But on the other hand his grandson was definitely a lot more capable of taking care of himself than most fifteen year olds.

Especially now that he had started wearing that combat knife his mother had carried attached to her ankle on the day of her death. Joubert wouldn't have noticed it, had Ash not shown it to him after finishing his glass of Scotch.

"Guerrero gave it to me", he had explained, slowly retrieving the knife and placing it on the table between them. "Don't know where he got it… I thought it had been seized by the police. But it's really mom's, I'm sure. Not just the same type… I recognize the hilt… it's hers…. One day he just came into my room and put it on my nightstand. _You know how to use this_… that's all he said."

Yeah, that definitely sounded like the Guerrero way of providing consolation for a grieving child.

"Who showed you how to conceal it like that?", Joubert had asked, taking in how well kept the knife was. Ash must spent hours polishing it.

Good, very good.

"Figured that out by myself", the boy had replied.

At that, the Old Man had allowed himself a huge satisfied smile. What he had been sowing for so long was finally showing fruits.

Nevertheless letting Ash go home alone was risky. But Joubert didn't want to make the boy feel like he was controlling him, just like everyone else. Ash was well aware of Guerrero's extensive monitoring measures. Over time this had turned into a cat and mouse game between the two – Guerrero for example installed some sort of hidden tracking device on Ash's cell and Ash did his best not simply to turn it off but to manipulate it so that Guerrero thought it was still working.

Fantastic training, in Joubert's eyes.

And Guerrero, most likely, thought along the same lines, although he'd never openly state it in the presence of Junior and he surely didn't have a career as a professional assassin in mind for Ash. He was simply realistic: Joubert was sure that just like himself Guerrero knew no matter what Junior dreamt of regarding his son's future, whatever university white collar career he had in mind for him, that boy was clearly made for the gritty side of things. He would never simply sit at a desk and pour over books, just like you would have needed shackles and a very solid chain to make his father sit down and do paperwork all day long. The Old Man had seen it in Ash's eyes very early onwards, even back when they had only just met – he loved the thrill, the physical and mental challenge, the danger of physical confrontation… the boy was an adrenaline junkie just like his father – born to fight.

Just for which side, that was the question.

For quite a while Joubert had been worried – Ash admired Junior, wanted to be like him and Junior was still deep into this "nobody deserves to die"-shit.

But then Philippa's unplanned demise had significantly played into his hands – especially since she had died so violently. A stranger killing his mother out of the blue, in cold blood, without blinking… what better way to evoke that burning flame of wrath and anger at the world in the boy that had once made Junior the best in the business? Ash wanted revenge, he wanted to lash out, he wanted to pay the world back for the pain he had suffered…

Not much longer and he was ready to be taught the final step towards vengeance.

Joubert decided to allow himself another drink although in addition to not wanting to give Ashley the impression of babying him, there was a more practical reason for letting him go back to the warehouse alone: A client was coming by a few minutes from now and the Old Man simply didn't have the time…

The security system alerted him to a visitor.

A brief glance at the monitor revealed the client, an old acquaintance who had come to him every now and again in the past twenty years. Joubert didn't have friends, but this client was one of the few who came pretty close to the definition. He was quite early today, though. Well, maybe he had another appointment later on or something like that.

They shook hands, Joubert led him into his office, offered him a drink and they sat down to talk business. Only when they were both seated, in the light of the Old Man's desk lamp, he noticed how pale his almost friend looked today. Pale and shaky. With beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Maybe he was sick? Some nasty flu bug? Just like himself his client was no spring chicken anymore.

"Tell me what I can do for you", Joubert prompted him.

At first glance the story was very similar to stuff he had heard from him before, some business partner stealing too much of the profit and becoming a problem… but it was the way his client spoke that was wrong, just wrong. He kept getting muddled in his sentences, stumbled over words, mixed up names and dates…

What he had to say came across like some badly rehearsed cover up story, and Joubert suspected this was exactly what it was.

Damn it, he shouldn't have allowed himself the additional drink. He didn't deal as well with alcohol as he used to, the Scotch must have significantly diminished his perception and ability to think clearly, otherwise he would have noticed the warning signs much earlier…

"What did you give me?", he asked the client.

"Contact poison", the man mumbled, barely able to form the words, so scared was he. "My palm is sealed with medical varnish, so it doesn't affect me – I transferred it when we shook hands." He got up and took a step back from the desk. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"Why?", Joubert, who was starting to feel the effects of the poison, croaked.

"Innokentij Krektovic has kidnapped my granddaughter. He said if I didn't kill you, he'd scatter her body parts all over the city. She's only nine."

"You know with that kind of knowledge Innokentij won't let you live?" Speaking was becoming difficult. The Old Man knew there was not much time left for him.

"I know. But for my granddaughter… Maybe he'll let her live."

The client exited the room. With his fading hearing Joubert noticed the main door opening and closing.

_For my granddaughter… _Joubert would have never thought that, come the day, he'd feel understanding, yes, even sympathy for his killer.

But he did.

With the last lucid thought his dissolving mind was capable of he realized that he would have done exactly the same.

He would have sacrificed himself for Ash. And for Junior.

_Junior… _


	71. one

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ one ~ **_

They buried Joubert in New York. He had bought a mausoleum there ages ago. Trust the Old Man to make sure it reflected the kind of person he had been. His tomb was a 100-year-old Greek Revival building in shining white granite with a dome, Corinthian pillars complete with acanthus leaves and a vast flight of stairs leading inside, where walls and floor were clad with top quality marble. Dim light filtered through a custom-made window by a famous 19th century artist depicting a peaceful landscape probably somewhere in Italy. Victor Joubert had always been a man of classical taste, be it in Scotch or architecture.

After a long and fierce debate with his father Ash had pushed his attendance at his grandfather's funeral through. Chance had insisted that the boy had already been to one burial not too long ago, he definitely didn't need to witness another and have all the barely closed wounds Philippa's death had torn reopened.

"I will go to New York and you won't stop me!", his son had yelled at him, slamming doors, retreating to the gym and boxing sandbags.

"You can't save him from the pain, bro", Guerrero had told Chance and in the end he had agreed. There was no way he could spare Ash from having to experience everything all over again, the loss, the emptiness, the helplessness… the grief.

Grief.

When the news came in, Chance had sat down and poured himself a very generous amount of Scotch. And then another. And another. At some point, Guerrero came by and joined him. Wordlessly they proceeded to empty the bottle. Later Winston showed up with food, made them down a bit of water in between the alcohol and tucked them in when they both finally passed out.

Ames and Ilsa spent that evening at Ilsa's apartment, waiting for occasional sitreps from Winston via text message, picking their way through a delivery from Ilsa's favorite restaurant and wondering what consequences Joubert's demise would have… for both father and son. Chance could deny it as much as he wanted, the Old Man had been family to him, no matter how twisted the relationship. And Ash… he had lost his grandfather.

When Chance had told Ash he could go to New York after all, Ash had angrily grabbed his gear and stomped out of the warehouse's gym. "Thank you for your permission!", he had spat.

This was all not good, not good at all.

… … …

Ash would have rather bitten his tongue off than admit it, but part of him wished his father had put his foot down and not permitted him to go to New York.

This was horrible. The moment they carried the coffin into the mausoleum… but even worse was the closing of the bronze door, just a muffled metallic thud… but to Ash's ears a sound of thunder in its absolute finality.

He wanted to hit somebody or shatter something into pieces, shout, SCREAM… His grandfather was gone! The only person who had truly understood how he felt about his mother's death! And now he was no more! Snatched away from him, just like that, without warning, a bolt out of the blue.

Like his mother had been taken.

Yes, his father had been right, this was like saying good-bye to her all over again, only worse, because back then, the day they had buried her urn, he had been numb with pain and shock, unable to realize what was truly going on… this time around he knew… He perceived everything… Every single neural cell of his body took in what was happening and memorized it… connected it back to what had happened to his mother and filled the formerly hazy pictures of her funeral… of her lifeless body on the floor… of… her face… with new life, new vibrancy, like Technicolor to a black-and-white movie.

… … …

The moment they closed the mausoleum's door Ash turned around and walked off. The graveyard was big, full of old trees, their cars were parked by the main entrance, Ash disappeared in the other direction.

"Let him take a breather", Winston told Chance. "This is quite a lot to wrap your head around."

Before Chance could reply Guerrero made a brief "heads up" motion. Baptiste came walking towards them.

"Heart attack", he said slowly. "Who would have thought it." He didn't make it sound like a question. Everyone knew what he was talking about.

"What are you going to do?", Guerrero asked. "Investigate?"

Baptiste took his time to answer. He let his eyes roam over the gravesite, rested them first on the shiny white museum in all of its pompous monstrosity, then on Greta, who was standing together with Ames and Ilsa, waiting for him. Light wind was tugging at her hair, playing with her long skirt.

"No", he finally said. "This is not my life anymore."

His eyes locked with Chance's. "You can keep my watch", he told him. Nodding at Guerrero and Winston, he walked off towards Greta and together they left.

"Are _we _going to investigate?", Winston asked. "I mean, seriously, _heart attack_? After everything he's been through? There are a million poisons which can mimic that. He must have had a ton of enemies. Wouldn't surprise me if one of them finally got him… Question is, are we interested in who did it? Or do we just let it pass? He did have it coming…"

"Raccoon man had the order to specifically shoot Ash", Guerrero said. "According to one of the hamsters Brax hadn't planned it from the beginning, but at some point during the robbery he made that decision. Don't know why yet, but maybe raccoon man can tell us. Dude's name is Walter Lewis. Still working on his location. Point is, first someone tries killing Ash, then the Old Man dies… don't think we can ignore this."

No passing train or cannon shot could have been louder than the silence that reigned between the three men.

No, they couldn't ignore this.


	72. Chapter 72

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Ash was restless. Ever since his return from New York he felt like caught in a constant rush of adrenaline. The wrong kind of adrenaline – not the stuff rushing through your veins prior to an ice-hockey match or during a sparring session. What he was experiencing prevented him from sleeping at night, from sitting still at school, from concentrating on anything be it a book or TV…even from eating.

In addition to the shit his body was putting him through the warehouse had eyes. Ilsa's eyes, Ames' eyes, Winston's eyes, Guerrero's eyes, hell, even Carmine's eyes…

And, most annoyingly, his father's eyes, anxiously resting on him practically every single one of his waking moments.

Worry incarnate.

And all those offers to _talk. _From practically everyone except Carmine. Again, his father was the worst. Sitting him down, offering him _caffeine-free coke_, beating around the bush…

This morning Ash definitely had had enough. He had overheard Ilsa suggesting they should get a psychologist involved no matter what. The enormous wave of anger that had washed over him at that moment… it drove him out of the office, onto the streets of the Tenderloin and then all the way to Potrero Hill, where Isu lived with his mother.

It was a Sunday, Isu was still in bed, Akemi, as far as Ash remembered, offered free qigong training in Golden Gate Park for senior residents at the weekends. So since she was out of the house he didn't feel the need to bother with niceties. He kept ringing the doorbell till a very bleary-eyed Isu opened the window of the second floor.

"Have you lost your mind?"

Ash decided that this was one of the questions better left unanswered.

"Get off your lazy ass, we're going jogging!"

And going jogging they did – for TWO hours, Ash running ahead, Isu bringing up the rear. In the continuously rising heat of the day. When they returned both boys were soaked in sweat, kicked off their shoes and removed their shirts.

Ash let Isu use the shower first. Despite the heat, the running, the physical exhaustion… He was still feeling restless. Not sure what to do he padded into his friend's room, figuring he could use the time to take a look at Isu's mailbox. Spying on each other had turned into a game between the two ever since Guerrero had started teaching Ash about the opportunities and limits (_especially_ the limits) of online security.

Whatever Ash learned from him he passed on to Isu. Without ever actually discussing it they began challenging each other – one day Isu bought Assassin's Creed III through Ash's amazon account, the next Ash hijacked Isu's facebook page and told the world he was a big fan of Disney's Lion King.

Ash sat down at Isu's desk, reached for the computer's on button… and hesitated. Frowning, he squinted his eyes and looked at Isu's mussed bed. There was something about it… about the bed frame… it was positioned in an odd angle, as if Isu had messed with it. Rolling forward with Isu's swivel chair, he took a closer look.

There was a box attached to the underside of the bed – a rather big box but flat and long, like the kind you transport expensive roses in, only that it was made of varnished wood, with Kanji characters on it, and looked old and worn.

Ash had no idea what the characters were saying – Isu was teaching him, but they hadn't gotten very far yet – but he instinctively knew whatever the box contained, it was important. The thing was somewhat awe-inspiring.

He didn't dare touch it.

"It belonged to my Dad", Isu's voice suddenly said behind him. Ash jumped – he had been so fascinated by his friend's hidden treasure, he hadn't heard him coming. If Guerrero had been present, this would have earned him at least twenty pushups or cleaning the bathroom with a toothbrush.

"Found it in the attic. Mom had hidden it from me. She doesn't know I have it."

Isu went down on his knees and retrieved the box from its hiding place. With great care he positioned it on the bed and, after a moment of hesitation and an almost anxious glance at Ash, he slowly opened it.

"A sword", Ash gasped.

"Not just _a sword_", Isu said, gently touching the intricately carved green hilt. "It's a katana, a samurai sword."

Ash was mesmerized. Locking eyes with Isu he silently asked for permission. Isu nodded and Ash took the sword out of the box.

The hilt felt as if it was custom made for his hand. The blade swished softly as he, stepping towards Isu's full-length mirror, moved it through the air.

"You've had sword training?", Isu asked, eyes trained on his friend in a mixture of fascination and slight shock. Ash's muscles were moving in flow with his dance-like steps, the katana seemed to have become a part of him. He looked as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Ash shook his head. "It just feels right", he replied, almost puzzled. "How much do you know about your dad?"

"Not much", Isu shrugged. "He was a bodyguard like yours. Died on a job. Your father was there, actually."

A sudden onslaught of anger rushed through Ash, made him tighten his grip on the sword. He hadn't known that. He and Isu had become friends ages ago and his father had never bothered to tell him. Never.

And there it was again, the lately rather burning question of what else he hadn't bothered telling him. He and his mom.

She had carried a hidden combat knife, for heaven's sake.

In an extremely rapid movement Ash cut through the air, then froze in a classic fighter's stance.

"You know what, a tattoo would look great on you", Isu said.

Suddenly both froze and listened. The sound of a key turning in a door lock. Akemi was coming back.

Isu quickly hid the sword again. Ash put on his shirt. A minute later Akemi was calling out for her son and came upstairs. "Hey, Ash, didn't expect you here at this time of day. Let me guess, you got hold of some ultra-cool videogame and wanted to try it out right away." She smiled knowingly. "What about milk and cookies for you two?"

Milk and cookies sounded great.

… … …

Guerrero was packing. He usually didn't borrow from the warehouse's stash, but Ilsa had only recently acquired this really smooth new gun type…

"You found him?" Chance had silently entered the room.

Guerrero merely nodded.

"I'm going with you."

Guerrero arched an eyebrow and threw his friend a questioning glance.

"I want to know why somebody wanted my son dead", Chance said, his voice making very clear that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

Guerrero had expected something like that. He shrugged in compliance.

Ten minutes later the two were walking towards the elevator, duffle bags slung around their shoulders.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Winston's voice right behind them. When had he learned to move so noiselessly?

"Nicely dramatic appearance, dude. You should consider an acting career. Most households own supersized TV screens, so your size shouldn't be a problem." Guerrero paused. "We're off to have a little chat with somebody", he added, almost as an afterthought."

Winston completely ignored the crack at his weight. "Not without me", he said.


	73. Chapter 73

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Walter Lewis, the raccoon man, had gotten wind of his comrades', the hamster men's, fate. Of course no bodies were found, but word on the street attributed their disappearance to Guerrero.

_Guerrero. _

Lewis did the only logical thing. He ran. Fast. And far. South America was the most affordable option.

Ecuador, to be exact.

According to Guerrero's sources Walter was hiding out in a small boardinghouse located somewhere in the outskirts of Guayaquil, popular with backpackers.

Good. Provided them with the perfect cover.

They didn't take Ilsa's jet. Too much of an eye-catcher and aside from that they didn't want to involve the Pucci name or, God forbid, the Marshall Pucci Foundation's, into an endeavor as …_checkered… _as the one they were planning.

A commercial air plane brought them to Iquitos in Peru. From there they hired a small private aircraft that dropped them off at Talaras. In the back of a ramshackle old truck, crammed in between cages with chickens and bags full of fishmeal they crossed the border to Ecuador, where they changed into another truck, this time full of sugar cane.

The Pan-American-Highway would have brought them to Guayaquil within a few hours, but again they opted for maximum unobtrusiveness and thus they were jolting along what seemed like an endless succession of muddy, bumpy side roads.

They needed to make sure that nobody could track them down…

…_afterwards…_

It was hot, but the real problem was the humidity. To Winston it seemed the rain hadn't stopped falling ever since they had touched down in Iquitos. According to the locals quite the unusual weather phenomenon in this region. Very helpful information, that. His skin was covered with a solid coat of grime. The human nose is pretty much oblivious of one's inherent smell, but judging from Chance's and Guerrero's odor, he STANK.

If the stench had at least kept the mosquitoes away!

Forget about it…

Guerrero was wearing camouflage pants and an originally white wife beater that had long ago taken on camouflage colors, too. Chance had chosen cargo pants for the trip and a by now very torn Hard Rock Café t-shirt. Winston preferred not to think about his own garment. Or what was left of it. They definitely looked like hardcore backpackers.

Hell, Guerrero had even brought a guitar.

Great place to hide certain _…equipment…_ in.

Winston didn't even attempt to crack a joke about it. They hadn't talked much ever since their departure from San Francisco and once the Ecuadorian border was behind them they fell almost completely silent. Funnily enough, Winston had never felt more like wanting to talk.

Michele had always chided him for being so silent. Going on vacation with her had been hell – those long road trips… he had wanted to listen to some proper music and indulge a bit in that truly American trucker feeling. She had wanted to discuss their relationship.

For heaven's sake. Their relationship! While on vacation!

Well, right now he felt like sending her a postcard with the possibly most sincere apology he had ever offered.

The look on Guerrero's and Chance's faces... it wasn't just the lack of their usual banter. There was something else missing… something in their eyes… Winston couldn't help but shake the feeling that this must have been what they used to look like when on a job for the Old Man.

Their eyes weren't exactly cold. It was more that there was a certain… distance… about them. They didn't come across as thugs, at least not right away. But they did radiate a certain air of underlying violence. Something that told all onlookers not to mess with them.

Now, Winston had met Chance back when he had been on a job, in the Old Man's employ. At that bar, where he had first invited him to drinks and then stolen his cell to find out Katherine Walter's location. He hadn't looked like that. If he had, Winston would have never, never ever even considered working with him.

Granted, Chance had been undercover at that bar, had pretended to be someone else, his sole aim had been putting Winston at ease to so he'd let his guard down and Chance could get his hands on Katherine's whereabouts.

But nevertheless… The look in his eyes… the slight quiver in his voice when he spoke about his work problems… breakdown in civility… co-workers he didn't trust…

Chance hadn't lied about that and Winston had known it, had somehow instinctively sensed it without consciously realizing.

Back at that bar Chance's transformation from assassin to protector, bodyguard, _death retardant specialist_, had already begun.

Winston couldn't quite shake the feeling that only now, after so many years, he was meeting the real Junior.

Same with Guerrero, in a way, although the contrast was not as stark. Back when he had met Guerrero the first time he had immediately disliked him, had sensed, just as with Chance, only the other way around, that Guerrero was a lot closer to – as cheesy as it sounded – the "dark side".

Now he realized that what he had seen back then had only been a glimpse of what Guerrero truly had been about in his New York days.

Winston buried his face in his hands and rubbed his forehead. There was no denying it. He was in the company of two killers. For that was what they were planning to do: Find Walter Lewis, question him with all means necessary and then…

Kill him.

Yes, they were talking about coldblooded murder here.

Another memory came back to him… the dead UN diplomat… Baptiste's access kill to stop operation olive branch. Him and Chance posing as police detectives to get a closer look at the body.

_Hey, look man, I know what this guy took from you. I know what you wanna do to him and I don't think there's a person in the world who'd blame you for it._

_But?_

_No buts. Whatever you want._

He had given Chance permission to break the "nobody deserves to die rule". In the end, at the great showdown in the subway, Chance didn't make use of it. Of course Emma Barnes liked to believe she had talked Chance out of it, but Winston knew better: Chance had defeated his thirst for revenge, the man Junior had become just hadn't been able to shoot Baptiste.

But things were different now. This was not about revenge. This was about protecting Ash.

No buts.


End file.
